There are two types of travelers in this world. There are those that go places for the experience of being there, immersed in the culture and one with the surroundings. Then there are those that bring their surroundings and culture with them in a defiant “I am here, make way” approach. I consider myself the latter, which is one of the reasons why I love not just visiting places as a passing tourist, but actually living there or at the very least, seeing a place with a local. My visitors for the past two weekends are more of the former: they arrived triumphantly and, by God, England would hear them roar.
Maybe triumphant isn’t the right word for their arrival. On their nearly twelve hour flight from Los Angeles, my sisters-in-law and their friend (hereafter referred to as ‘t
he girls’) were without power to their seats: no light, no flight attendant call button, no radio, and, that’s right, no in-flight entertainment. What is it with this family and televisions not working? On top of that, they didn’t sleep on the plane, although all three insisted they were not affected by any kind of jet lag. At one point during the first couple of days I remember hearing the phrase “we’re not jet-lagged, it’s just that our feet are tired”. Who knew a year ago that “until death do us part” really meant “you will deal with three jet-lagged, disgruntled women with lots of suitcases—and they’ll be in denial”.
Our first adventure was to Stonehenge. Actually, our first adventure was to the store to buy a hair dryer that worked on 220 volts, THEN we went to Stonehenge. I essentially repeated my driving excursion from the previous weekend with a visit to Stonehenge for photos then on to Salisbury for dinner at a pub and some aimless wandering through the town. This time I did not have to dine alone and the weather was actually decent. Cheers to the girls for that. It turns out I shouldn’t have blown the pub wad so early. We’ll get to that in a moment. The next day it was off to London, the Big Smoke. This was a day full of lessons.
Before we left, I advised the girls that it might be a good idea to consolidate their luggage as much as possible since whatever they brought would have to be transported downstairs to the taxi, from the taxi to the train, from the train to the tube, and from the tube to the hotel. Citing the possibility of a date with a prince, in their own very polite way they told me to shove it, after all, their suitcases all have wheels. I packed my backpack and called the cab. The first thing we did after the taxi dropped us off at the train station was climb about two dozen stairs to the platform. Good thing all three of their suitcases have wheels. After we bought our overpriced tickets to London (more on that later), I checked the train schedule and discovered we needed to be on the opposite platform. We climbed another two dozen stairs, crossed over the tracks, then walked down two dozen more. Somewhere around the first step I heard someone say “could there be any more stairs?” The sight of the three girls lugging their heavy suitcases up the stairs was enough to move me. I took out my video camera to capture the moment. I’m surely their favorite brother-in-law now. On the train we had our first lesson in “blending in” and all the students failed miserably. The four of us—and their luggage—were strewn out across several rows of seats. The conversation, somewhat above a whisper, sometimes involved phrases to the effect of “these places are so run down”. I tried to make a quiet speech about keeping a low profile, that we (Americans) are not loved by all the world and we were not currently in America. They weren’t scared, and didn’t care that I was. It was going to be a long week. 
Our hotel was conveniently located right in Victoria station where we arrived. That’s about the only good thing I can say about the hotel (a Thistle in case anyone wants to know where NOT to stay). We dined that afternoon at the Shakespeare pub across the street, our second visit to an English pub together. We took the Tube to Covent Garden, a tourist mecca replete with bars, restaurants, street performers, and more than a few shops. We did some window shopping and met up with my coworker Mark who had also journeyed to London for the weekend. The girls wanted to see the famous blue door in Notting Hill from the movie with the same name, so after we rendezvoused with Mark, the five of us took the tube to Notting Hill.
If I didn’t mention it before, this was a holiday weekend, equivalent to our Labor Day holiday in the states, essentially celebrating the end of summer. To commemorate the occasion, Notting Hill throws an annual Summer Bank Holiday festival. The first t
hing that greeted us as we got off the tube was an army of police officers closing down the station in preparation for the parade—and the millions of people that were beginning the celebration. Days later I found out that going to Notting Hill during festival is like going to the Bronx. I also found out about the shooting that occurred, thankfully the day after our visit. We never did find THE blue door, although we heard from someone that it’s not even blue anymore. Makes me feel kind of silly about all the pictures I took of random blue doors just in case
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We rounded out our evening by walking a million miles to the nearest open tube station and taking the train to the Embankment where we had a lovely stroll along the Thames River before ordering some pizza at an Italian restaurant. Embankment is where the majority of the stereotypical London sights are: Parliament, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, and the one I was most looking forward to, the London Eye…which closed just as we arrived. I could feel a slight tingle as the Big Smoke reached out to the Road Scholar in me and whispered “thanks for coming”.