Honeymoon to Europe.

What follows are my actual journal entries, minus a few personal or uninteresting details.

JUNE 5, 2008. 11:47 PM. THURSDAY.
This marks the third, perhaps fourth journal in which I've written in mid-flight. It's very weird to think that one could read from my days at the ass-end of junior high to my honeymoon, and presumably beyond.

Yes, Jamie and I are flying to Paris via a layover in Dublin. This is certainly a much easier trip than my last flight to Europe--no crazy story about snowstorms or busses nearly causing me to lose my flight.

The kid across the aisle's got the right idea--he's got his pillow on his tray and is completely passed out upon it.

Trying to fill in blanks now that I'm captive...my book is kinda boring (Mainspring by Jay Lake; it takes him 70 pages to get the story going), and I'm trying to conserve battery life on all of my electronics since we opted not to spend $50 on power converters (and that trip to Tashii station--wasted). So.

Time for sleep, if I can manage it. Plane travel is just generally too stimulating and uncomfortable for me to sleep, but with our limited time in Paris I want to hit the ground running.

JUNE 6, 2008. 1:07 PM. FRIDAY.
(8:07 AM New York time)

Our second plane after a three hour layover in Dublin. I fuckin' love Europe--all the cultures butting heads.

Now, like I've got a test coming up--I do, kind of, I suppose--I've been cramming French. The basics, like, "Where's the bathroom?" and, "Just water, please."

Customs made Jamie throw out her brand new, it was okay in New York saline solution, so she had to buy one here for €10...it was bigger than the one she threw away. Way to go, security!

Also, they shuttled us through immigration...very odd. They gave us these cards on the plane to fill out: name, rank, serial number, etc. Only, I didn't get one. So I'm hurriedly filling one out in line, holding up said line, and when we finally get to the window, the guy takes my 1/3 filled card and goes, "I don't know why they still make you fill them out--everything's automated; we have all your info on the computer here."

Oddly shaped head on that man, but very friendly.

JUNE 7, 2008. 8:29 AM. SATURDAY.
Our first day in Paris was exhausting, or maybe it was the being-in-transit-for-12-hours, or getting no sleep in 36.

It's funny how much stuff is in English--American English. Even stuff that isn't, I'm doing the best I can to use French...which usually means letting Jamie do that talking.

We spent entirely too much and too long in a cafe last night. It was good, but for the American restaurateur who's used to the idea of turning tables as quickly as possible, it got excruciatingly slow. Best mousse I've ever had, though.

The trains here are whisper quiet, smooth, and come every five minutes, so there's something to be said for socialized industry. The Metro is really intense, too. I feel like it goes a lot faster than the subway. But the craziest thing is the doors aren't fully automatic; they close automatically, but to open them you flick the handle, so the train is still moving into the station when they open. It's a twisted ankle waiting to happen, but not waiting for an idiot conductor to realize the train's in park to open the door is great.

Pariessians are self-important like New Yorkers, but they don't like to get the fuck out of the way. Maybe it's a function of smaller "personal space" in France, or maybe it's because we were towing luggage, but I nearly plowed into many, many people. Today's excursion should provide an interesting counterpoint in that respect.

They city's gorgeous--funky modern European architecture butting against buildings from the turn of the century and medieval castles. And clean! And it smells nice! Perhaps we're just in a nice area, but even Central Park West doesn't look or smell this good. Also, awesome French cars. I want a 2 door/2 seater. If Manhattan switched to these cars, parking spaces would at least triple around the city.

Hungry. Last had ravioli on the plane to Dublin around 12 EST, then croque-monsieur at 8 yesterday. Cheesy garlic bread with ham and a salad is not very filling.

JUNE 8, 2008. 12:21 AM. SUNDAY.
Bidets don't really work, they just get your poop wet.

Christ, what a day. Notre Dame to begin with--no, trying to find a cafe near the cathedral first. French hot chocolate is awesome. It seems to be just melted chocolate. I'm down.

So, Notre Dame, smaller on the outside than you'd think, from the front anyway, but huge inside.

Requisite blind beggar at the entrance, women asking everyone if they speak English at the exit. I have no idea what they wanted; although people probably know to look at me, I try to downplay the fact that I'm American, or rather a tourist, when possible.

[Totally forgot to mention the Catacombs in my actual journal, which is weird, because it was one of my favorite things. So here goes; the addition ends with the close bracket.

We tried to hard to find the Catacombs, missing it somehow when we came out of the Metro. Old guy ignored Jamie's request for help. The line was long but pretty quick. We were sandwiched between a Swedish (?) family with adorable moppets and a gaggle of Asian-Australians, whom I didn't know were Asian until they passed us in the tunnels.

I took a picture of the entryway because of Y: The Last Man but couldn't explain it to Jamie without spoilers.

Down a LONG staircase into an old quarry, and a LONG walk to anywhere. Really, there's no closer entrance? Great sculptures carved into the rock by bored quarrymen of a palace that happened to be across from a prison where he'd stayed. Huh.

When you finally get to the Ossuary, there's just more than you thought possible. Skulls and femurs (just leg bones. It was weird, I kept looking for other bones. I guess leg bones are the prettiest), stacked chin high, at least, for a mile. It never stopped being impressive. Too bad there was no flash photography allowed, but Photoshop should lighten some pictures. I was very pleased that the two Americans (us) were constantly passed by everyone else.

The guard at the entrance was funny, in that he knew right away that we were American, even though we said "Bonjour." It's also funny that whenever you tell someone here that you're from New York, they ask what borough. What's the difference?]

Then it was on to Musee d'Orsay, a 19th century (?) train station, and what a station it was. The place itself is a work of art, and every time you turn around there's another great piece. Lots of Rodin, including a version of "The Gates of Hell."

We were wiped by this point, so of course we go through another gallery before going back to the hotel.

After a nap--from which I had the hardest time getting up--we went to dinner in this "traditional French" restaurant, where they shoved us in the back with the Rude Americans. We were treated well, but then we spoke French (Jamie obviously more than I, but I can get the basics if she takes the lead). These people, not really rude, but no effort, not even a "parlez vous anglais?"

We had escargot, a dish that deserves to not be stigmatized because it's so good (smother anything in butter and garlic and it tastes great; I had 1/2 a pound of steak tartar, and Jamie had a killer beef stew.

After dinner we were feeling adventurous, so we decided to walk to the Eiffel Tower, of which had caught a glimpse from the street outside the restaurant. Forty-five minutes on a long but very nice walk later we hopped on a train.

The crazy thing was it was 10 PM and still quite bright. Like 8:30 during the vernal equinox bright. Have to find out why that is.

The Eiffel Tower's a lot of things. Underwhelming, impressive, pretty, pointless. I can see why Parisiennes hate(d) it--it doesn't fit the city at all. Still, it was pretty. The park that it's in does it no favors, nor do the throngs of hawkers jangling these massive keyrings of mini Towers, or the dudes thrusting cheap champagne at you, or fake roses (right in your face), or--my favorite-- mechanical birds. ...the fuck?

Paris is wonderful. It's so quiet and it's quiet like this everywhere. The loudest people are invariably Americans, to the point where Jamie and I started faking Irish accents (quietly). Where's the garbage in the streets? In the trains?

New York's the greatest city in the world...why, again?

JUNE 9, 2008. 12:15 AM. MONDAY.
Most of the day was spent at Versailles, and with good reason: the place is fucking huge. You really can't picture it until you're standing in the middle of the garden, a twenty minute walk from the back door of the palace.

Long-ass lines to get in, made longer for us by our attempt to save some money. Note to future visitors to Versailles--buy your tickets at the train station.

The train there was a trip, too. Straight outta the seventies, all browns and oranges and black. Double decker and super quiet and smooth. French people wouldn't put up with the bullshit New Yorkers accept as routine. It's a demonstration of what happens when people make a collective decision that things are going to be "nice."

Versailles: long lines, enormous crowds, lots of idiots taking flash pictures of tapestries. One Spanish kid manhandling a statue; Jamie and I stood there in disbelief, too tired and revolted to do anything. The crowds really soured the place for me--pushy people and rudeness--but Americans got nothing on the Spanish. That and the wait to get in took its toll, along with all the walking we've been doing anyway. By the time we got to the gardens...think like, three Central Parks end to end. We were Tired.

But how could you not be amazed by rooms and rooms filled with portraiture and statuary? And a dude in period garb playing three chess games-- with room for ten more--blindfolded! Not a clue what that was about, but good christ! Massive trees, forests of them--lining every alcove, well over fifty feet tall. Down every path was another gorgeous objet d'art.

Jim Gaffigan has this routine about cake: "Cake'll make you do strange things. You'll be at work... 'It's Ted's last day.' 'Ah, I hate that guy.' 'There's gonna be cake.' 'Well, I should go say hello.'" That became the motto of our vacation. So much cool stuff, so little time, so tired..."Well, we should go say hello."

On the way back to the train we stopped for some food and I accidentally stole some soda. How was I to know she put our soda into the bag already? Why do they even have that cooler?

From there to the Champs Elysees (forgive my terrible French spelling). Giant, broad, breathtaking. (Lame shops, actually.) And everywhere you turn: beauty.

L'Arc de Triomphe was probably the most impressive monument I've ever seen. Pictures don't do it justice--it's huge. €10 to go to the top, so, alas, our cheap asses stayed below and looked up.

Then along the Seine--hating every minute because my muscles are sore beyond recognition and I'm thirsty and my feet hurt and I hate walking anyway, and hating myself for being a pussy and a brat because how often do you get to do this? So it's up the bank we go to the Metro, and hello ass-end of the Louvre, hello pretty Gothic church whose name we don't know. Does this city eventually stop with the beauty and the surprise?

Before that the Touillerie for a nap and an odd conversation with a Jewish-Australian couple on their honeymoon, too, and now they're convinced we're Jewish.

Dinner's become a quest to find the places with the least Americans and eat the least American food. Found one again tonight. Speaking as much as possible in French does seem to endear us to people. They politely drop into English if we get stuck, then back into French. I'm progressing--I even added a verb tonight!

Disaster was averted when the concierge provided us with a power converter so we could charge our camera. The blinking red battery light had harried us all day.

I need a full-out back and foot massage like no one's business, but we've got one more day, and it's going to be a doozy: the Louvre. Getting ready to muscle through it and enjoy the City of Lights, even if it kills me.

JUNE 10, 2008. 12:22 AM. TUESDAY.
Started the day with a long walk and wake up to Monmartre and Sacre Coeur. It didn't help that we were both incredibly sore from Versailles. Took a wrong turn out of the Metro and wound up walking in a circle, which is really the story of our trip: take the long way around. Gleaming white church at the top of the hill, three-plus blocks filled with porno shops at the bottom. The church was beautiful inside, and it's a shame we couldn't take pictures. And we had to be silent because of the mass going on. Generic women in head scarves begging at the entrance and exit, gone by the time we left. I wonder how much they make in a day, and what their story is? I imagine the toughest, gnarliest beggars fight for those posh places, right on the steps of a church.

A stroll around the corner to a little artist's nook--street artists doing charcoal drawings, others selling their paintings-on-the-spot. My favorites were the clowns cum Precious Moments. People actually buy that? Then again, people buy aprons that look like they're ripped to show boobs, so who knows? No pictures were allowed, alas, because otherwise who would buy your €50 oil painting of a poppy? Smarter people with better cameras stood a ways off and "shot the scenery." Yeah...scenery.

Back to Sacre Coeur for the Dome and Crypt. ...But first the most unhelpful ticket kiosk ever. We (I) made asses of ourselves (myself) trying to navigate it for a credit card purchase. What a day to not have Euros. On the other hand, we've managed to make €100 (not counting dinner and other card purchases) last 4 days.

300 stairs up a spiral staircase. Our asses are going to look great. We felt like wimps in that we had to stop a few times to rest. Counting that 300 we'd climbed something like 2,000 stairs today alone (not kidding). But what a view! 360 degrees of Paris. Totally worth it.

Going up stairs to go down stairs.

Then the Crypt. Unexpectedly awesome. Some great statuary, beautiful, seldom noticed (I'm sure) stained glass, and some dude's ribs, heart, and assorted bones. I love Catholics. So much great stuff--here and elsewhere--and people just breeze on by it to the next step on their Lonely Planet walking tour.

Onto the Louvre! ...Fuck, more stairs?

Back to the Touillerie, where it's super sunny, at least 80 degrees Fahrenheit, and I already burned yesterday. I am crabby unless I am in the shade. Jamie makes fun of me and goes on to take the pictures I'm too much of a wuss to.

The pyramid's lame. Great underground reception hall-thing, just a stupid hunk of glass above. Admission €9--not bad.

Smalls had said to skip the Louvre in favor of D'Orsay. D'Orsay was awesome, but what the fuck? Jamie and I are stunned--stunned--by the collection. It's obvious the Met, and all American museums, got the leftovers, the things the French wiped their noses with. Greek masterpieces, Roman masterpieces, Etruscan, those dudes who don't sculpt features except for noses. A beautifully preserved Hermes--in a section of well-preserved Greek signs and texts--tucked into an ancillary hall.

Oddly realistically sculpted scrotum, replete with skin flap.

And the halls these things are put in--you don't know where to look.

Venus de Milo: not my thing, but cool to see. It was in a hall the size of a football field (I exaggerate a touch). Just it. Nothing else. Christ!

Winged Victory at the top of a grand staircase--perfect. Huge, too, on this giant jutting cliff-like base. Lady getting her picture taken puts her hand on the base. People would shit on a Caravaggio if you let them.

If the sculpture was the one-two punch, the Italian paintings were the knockouts. Masterpieces stacked three high, easily 15 feet high by twenty wide, if they're an inch. For a half mile. (I don't know distances.) Knowing we have limited time we rush past art that would be the prize of a lesser collection and feel like boors, the types of people I hate, who only experience their vacation in photos, after the fact.

Very snobby moment: do most of these people even know what they're looking at? How astonishingly well preserved all of these paintings are?

Obviously not, because the throngs rush to La Jaconde to...what? Check it off the list? And in doing so they miss Botticelli, Raphael, and, wait for it, Da Vinci. Awesome Da Vinci. Million-times-better-and-more-fun-than-the-Mona-Lisa Da Vincis.

So, yeah, the Mona Lisa. People taking flash pictures of the Mona Lisa. No one stopping them. (Repeat that through the whole of Paris. If you take a flash photo of a 500+ year old well-preserved painting or, god forbid, a tapestry, you should never be allowed within sight of an art museum ever again.) It's Da Vinci, so it's good, but you've seen it before. Now it's famous because it's famous. Lady with Ermine at the Legion in San Francisco was a better (more interesting) painting, but what do I know?

Raft of the Medusa, such a good painting, impressive in scale. You really do need to see it (and all of these massive paintings) in person to truly appreciate it.

On and on, almost until it's closed. Right up 'til the end we were energized, let's see just one more thing, what's behind this door. The stuff they tuck away that most people never see, like the paintings in the hall to a bathroom, or Napoleon III's apartments. The apartments were easily the rivals of anything in Versailles in terms of opulence, and it's better preserved (i.e. no graffiti etched into mirrors).

No thanks to a squad of French kids who draw in dust on a 19th century sideboard because other people had done it. Luckily it was covered with a plastic sheet, but still, where are the guards?

Quick late lunch on the Seine. Feeling very crabby and tired. Of course, not a few hours later I looked back on it and thought how pretty and nice it was (maybe Jamie's onto something), even with homeless dudes playing '60s American pop...for some reason.

A word on Parisian homeless. They seem very much to be drunks/junkies, but not aggressive. But especially their don't appear to be crazy, unlike New York homeless. Also, for a city this size, there don't seem to be a lot of them. Even beggars are pretty quiet and chill, like a lot of this city.

Oh! Almost forgot pushy bracelet-scam guy that would not take Jamie's "no" as we came down from Sacre Coeur. One of those guys who ties a cheap 2 cent bracelet to your wrist and asks for €1, like those kids that got me in Cancun. Guy spoke almost accentless English, though. Another guy tried to do that to me on the way through the Touillerie--one look stopped him dead. That was pretty neat.

Another trip to Notre Dame, because great minds think alike. Another mass--is it a feast day or something? Also a good chunk was blocked off. As an unrepentant Atheist it's almost my duty to hate the Church--the coins clinking into cash boxes the other day seems to me the entirety of Church history--but I was surprised by how disrespectful people were. Flash photography (again!) around medieval paintings (#1) and during a mass with a visiting...bishop (?)...(#2)...uncool. And the two kids who went to enter the church without shirts.

Also, Americans can be very unsubtle and uncouth, but the French are really rude. They seem to have no concept of turns or not walking where the fuck I'm walking. Can I least get a "pardon"?

Dinner at another cafe by Notre Dame. Our initially curt waiter warmed to us (well, Jamie), and even gave her an impromptu French lesson. Me...well, I'm sure he could tell I'd never spoken French before Friday.

At the end of our stay we'd finally learned two things about cafes: just sit, they'll come to you, and when you're ready to go flag down your server. You decide how long you stay. Service isn't slow, it's relaxed. And $6 (€4,50) isn't too much for a Coke under the right circumstances. It's also funny how we'd gone from being super-nervous and quiet in cafes to pretty brazen and confident.

There are cafes and restaurants everywhere here. I wonder how they all survive. I guess that every square inch of the city is a tourist destination, the money flows and spends.

Oh, and the French are disgusting chimneys that never stop smoking. I know I just said that the French are rude, but really, if you're not trying to walk through a crowd they're very nice and very friendly, but everyone smokes and it's gross. It's revolting, for an otherwise wonderfully clean smelling city (and none of New York's garbage/fart smells), it's a travesty to walk into these clouds o' death. I actually go a little sick last night/this morning from it.

[JUNE 20, 2008: Still sick. Mostly better, but still sick. Jerks.]

For all my bitching, what a great city. What a great fucking city.

Did I mention I love the Metro? And we've never had to wait more than 5 minutes for a train?

Tomorrow: London via the Chunnel!

JUNE 11, 2008. 12:30 AM. WEDNESDAY.
I fell asleep watching a Spanish language program about Japan made circa 1990. It was oddly compelling, and I know more Spanish than I thought, at least when it's spoken in slow, clear Castillian.

The journey to London was oddly stressful. The choice of what to get for breakfast and whether to come back for our bags proved divisive, at least momentarily. Once that was settled we took our bags to a cafe near the train station from which we arrived, we had an awesome, if light, breakfast.

I use "awesome" too much.

The Gare du Nord station was pretty, much like d'Orsay on a less grand scale. We had a run-in with a British customs agent, "Snappy Lady." "You have to get in the queue; that's why we have a queue." In our defense, immediately after getting cleared through French customs, we were confronted with another set of booths. I figured they just staggered the booths, so we went to go through, anticipating that someone would stop us if it wasn't cool.

It wasn't cool.

So we go back in the queue (not "queue line," Borders people), and too late realize we need to fill out our "landing cards." Of course, this means to the bock of the queue again, and two new cards apiece, when we realize that they want capital letters. In an effort to not piss off "Snappy Lady" we dutifully comply. "S.L." is, of course, the only agent available to us. Hey, British people! You have your own line! Use it! By the time we get to the window, "S.L." is gone, replaced with a very nice agent. Score one for us?

Before we'd gone through either customs (would it help if I did this stuff in order?), we watched an old man almost wrestled to the ground because he was too stupid to present his card saying he had a metal hip before he walked through the metal detector--we heard his wife berating him after.

Watching Jamie stuck behind this Spanish family trying to figure out where their seats were was hilarious. I, being Mr. Efficiency, had booked onto the train, since I hate to be stuck behind idiots on public transportation. I'm in my seat before they figured out how to open the sliding door, and I see Jamie, ready to rip off their heads. When she finally gets to her seat we snark until the train pulls out.

The Russian kid ahead of us with a table full of chocolate bars.

At one of the stops before Calais we pick up this chicken coop of British women who obviously got into the wrong car and bitch about their "stolen" seats until we're on the platform at St. Pancras (how the hell do you pronounce that?).

A few games of backgammon, the soda I stole from Versailles, and a charming French countryside. I dream an extended daydream in which I return to the States, gather a group of investors and transform the American rail system into a golden copy of France's. Direct service to the Grand Canyon! A useful Los Angeles subway! I share this with Jamie. She pats me on the head. She'll see. Just wait until I have my own collector's edition Brio train.

I roll my suitcase over Jamie's poor broken feet at St. Pancras. This is not the first or last time I will fuck up her feet on this trip.

It occurred to us on the train that we have no idea where the hotel is. The address says Picadilly, but Park Lane is to the west. We settle for taking the Tube to Green Park. To make sure, we decide to call the place. We go to the Tube entrance, ask someone, and learn that the only phones in the fucking place are at the other end of the station. On the way we pass a hotel info desk, but two Australians are taking forever making reservations. (Now?) To the phones!

Only...we can't get the phones to work right. Two construction workers try to help us out, but obviously the phone number they gave us is for outside the UK, and the address is terribly non-specific: Park Lane Hotel, Picadilly, London, UK.

We're both very frustrated. Jamie goes back to the hotel info desk for help, I stay with the bags trying to get WiFi on my phone. I don't. (Turns out you have to turn the switch "on" first.) We were right: Green Park.

£4 for one adult, single trip, single zone? Seriously? At least we get two trips out of it--later a nice guy in the station lets us through, thinking our tickets malfunctioned. And considering we only took the Tube three times, our idiot tax (or tourist tax) isn't so bad at £16.

Once at the station we have another dilemma: where the fuck are we? I've never been to this part of London before. More frustration, but my assumption turns out to be correct. It was handy that the hotel is on the only Park Lane is London.

Beautiful hotel, and free Granny Smith apples. We shower in the world's highest pressure shower and go back out. Knowing it's touristy and tourists love to eat, thus ensuring lots of foodings, we go to Picadilly Circus. Jamie's first London "wow moment." Welcome to one of the most famous spots in the world.

We stumble on Trafalgar Square, and man is it impressive, but I'm hungry and really pissed I can't find it on a map. I give up and we wander into basically the first open restaurant we find, a Thai place with good prices and a table of Mormons or Jehovah's Witnesses or something. Someone's comment that baseball predates cricket sets me off about the origins of both sports. Jamie nods and smiles.

Fooded we can enjoy Trafalgar Square, and from there we walk to Parliament, cross Lambeth Bridge, and follow the Thames and the Jubilee Walk (I get a picture like that old Thames logo from Danger Mouse) to the Globe and cross at Southwark Bridge. From there we've got to see a street called "Old Jewry," then Tube it back to the hotel, where I check my email for the first time since Thursday. I'm slightly disappointed I didn't have more mail. I did see that the Yankees are 32-32.

Down by the Globe has changed a lot. Maybe they were building it when I was last here--I do now recall a lot of scaffolding and detours. In general the city feels more "Disneyland-ish," more modern, but that could be because of my exposure to New York, long term, and the fact that I'm not sleep-deprived this time.

I still have my old money from 7 years ago. I almost hate to part with it.

Price of Coke in restaurant: £1.50. That's more like it.

JUNE 12, 2008. 11:36 PM. THURSDAY. I meant to write last night, but fell asleep while watching "Britain's Biggest Babies." Later, Jamie had to wake me up because I was snoring so badly. Those Frenchies and their precious cigarettes gave me a horrible head cold, so since Paris I've been sniffling and hocking up huge loogies every morning.

So yesterday was the Tower of London. It was very neat to be where so many important, history-shaping people had been, but it was a little disappointing. (To me, anyway. Jamie was enraptured.) I think I was expecting a more medieval fortress or palace, when it had been continually updated since its original construction through to the present. And the Crown Jewels were really nothing to write home about; is it any surprise the Royals have no taste? And a Coronation Spoon? What the hell is that for?

I geeked out over the Armory, of course.

Perhaps the neatest thing we almost missed--the walk along the southern inner wall and through the towers, with rooms where Guy Fawkes and Raleigh were held.

Next was Westminster Abbey, which is not only much bigger than it looks from the outside, but took a few hours to get through. Beautiful architecture, like Notre Dame, but very cluttered, what with all the tombs of wealthy aristocracy so they can eternally masturbate to how rich they were. It also occurred to me that Anglicanism, in general, is polishing the brass on the Titanic. The monarchy has no real power, and worship is contained to Britain and smatterings in America. Then again, a lot of London feels that way--tradition for the sake of it, and really being in love with the whole of British "ethnicity."

Still, it was great to pay respects at the tomb of Elizabeth I, and in Poets' Corner, which felt like a reading list from Intro to English Lit. Since they don't let you take pictures inside, I felt I had to do something at the marker for Gerard Manley Hopkins, so I recited "God's Grandeur" to Jamie and myself, and maybe another passing couple. It felt like a fitting tribute; fuck flowers.

Dinner at an Indian place off Park Lane on Shepherd's Market, or maybe that's what the section is called. Anyway, it's this cluster of shops, pubs, and restaurants where we had the best chicken tika masala ever, and I put a curry-covered finger in my eye. Brilliant. And then "Britain's Biggest Babies."

This morning was the Globe, which is a bit of a trap at £12/person, but we did learn some things we hadn't known before, and the tour guide and exhibitions did an excellent job of providing context. I did also see the older gentleman who taught my stage combat workshop the last time I was here, but I was too chicken shit to say anything.

After that was the British Museum which was really disappointing, but free. Both Jamie and I felt we'd seen better stuff elsewhere. The Museum also seems to be doing this thing that really all of London is doing. I call it "Playskoolification," where they're pushing for this forced, kiddy modernism, instead of embracing their awesome Victorianism.

The National Gallery, a late addition to our itinerary, was a very pleasant surprise. Not a lot of "big name stuff"--except the marriage portrait by Van Eyck, and his self portrait with the "carved" letters on the frame, but solid, eye-catching stuff. The largest number of portrayals of Christ kicking out the money changers that I've ever seen in one place.

Dinner again at Shepherd's Market where I unintentionally amused a German couple by folding our napkins after dinner, and then a fruitful but nigh-Quixotic quest for ice cream that took us from the hotel, through Picadilly Circus, to Leicester Square.

Tomorrow: Buckingham (finally), a walking tour, Portabello Road, and then...?

JUNE 13, 2008. 11:54 PM. FRIDAY.
Our last day in London, and the last day of our honeymoon.

Buckingham Palace is nothing more than a squat building with a nice gate out front and some Marines or the British equivalent around it. That's it. It was funny to watch people go apeshit over it; there simply wasn't anything to be excited about there.

Our walking tour was great, though. It was called "Hidden London," and basically it was the stories behind all the really neat shit you see around any city, really. My favorite part was learning the words and tune to the rhyme Winston can't quite remember in 1984, as well as visiting two of the churches named in it, St. Martin's and St. Clements'.

Portabello Road turned out to be a disappointment. I swear it was a lot cooler last time. It's funny how these street fair vendors, even though they sell "unique" items, still always sell the same crap as every other street vendor.

A three hour nap and then back to Picadilly/Leicester Square for dinner, another Quixotic journey because there are only three types of restaurants in London: Italian, French, and pub. And Indian. Shit. Point is I didn't want any of them. We finally ate at this Italian place that might have been a chain when I decided I didn't want to walk anymore. Funny thing was I got exactly what I wanted in the first place: a chicken sandwich.

Back in the hotel we watched the strangest comedy show ever, called "The Mighty Boosh." It was the most gentle surreality ever, and we must have it!

JUNE 15, 2008. 10:01 PM. SUNDAY.
We're finally back on EST. The ride to Heathrow was okay. There was a chick on the train, and you could tell just by looking at her that she didn't travel much. Kinda wild-eyed, confused stare. It was endearing.

Lots of security for Air India. We had our names checked against a passenger manifest twice. The desk lady for EmiratesAir had a hat with a veil.

I am always flying Air India from now on. I admit we both thought the "plane" was going to be a canoe strapped to a hang glider pulled by a donkey, but we had tons of leg room, our own personal touch screen TVs with a selection of movies, shows, and games. And they constantly fed us. I used the opportunity to catch up with classic movies I'd never seen.

Bitchy lady across the aisle who used the six hours to terrorize the flight attendant and complain.

Mrs. Shovy, an old Russian broad in a babushka who elbowed her way in front of me at the baggage carousel. Let's be honest, lady, you ain't pickin' up shit. That's what your beleaguered, 40 year old son in a Cosby sweater is for.

The train back to the apartment took forever; way to go New York. ...We're going to be insufferable for the next month. But, within twenty minutes we'd been panhandled by some dude who then did calisthenics, and had to listen to these loud, spoiled teenagers who, wouldn't you know it, got off at our stop -- 175th St., after they'd joined the train in Brooklyn.

Passed out at 10 PM to The Simpsons.

Went to Jamie's aunt's today for Father's Day to show off pictures.

Good to be home.

Very good trip.

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