Travel

Ok, so quickly, a recap of Thursday.

I started the morning by bolting upright in my Frette-sheeted bed and noticing daylight. Oh (as they say here) bollocks. It was 9:31 a.m. and I was supposed to meet our group in the lobby at 9:30 a.m. The alarm on my brand new Google phone didn’t sound at 7:00 — a much bitched-about Android flaw — and I’d been hit with a nasty case of insomnia between 1:30 and 4:30 a.m., so I flew about the room in a panic for a few minutes. The phone rang, and it was Alison. “The good news is, we’re not leaving till 10:30, so you’re safe.” Whew!

Fortified with coffee and strawberry yogurt, I headed with our group over to Lamb’s Conduit Street with the lovely Clare Dowdy, a journalist and shopping expert here in London. To be honest, I wasn’t excited about a personal shopping tour and fretted I wouldn’t come up with story ideas, but I knew after a couple minutes chatting with Dowdy that this would be fun. It was like shopping with a friend who really knows the area, and who’s eager to point out the places she knows you’ll enjoy. She pegged me for Persephone Books, which quickly earned itself £27 (3 books, all work-related), and the cafe next door that sold some interesting London-produced foods (and smelled heavenly). I was sad to see Clare go. And wonder of all wonders, I *did* get some very good story ideas.

Alison and I went our own way after this. We stopped by another bookshop, then famished, headed off to Notting Hill with my list of cookbooks and appetites. We ended up having fish and chips at the Duke of Wellington Pub, accompanied by pints of beer (Guinness for me, a lager for Alison) then made our way around the corner to Books for Cooks. I didn’t go too crazy, but I did squeal when I found The Avoca Cafe Cookbook #2, which is very hard to find in the U.S. I also purchased Pasties by Lindsey Bareham, who did the Roast Chicken books with Simon Hopkinson (books which I adore), along with the two latest Books for Cooks recipe compilations and some other book, which I’m too lazy to dig out of its sack.

Then it was off to The Travel Bookshop across the street, which I understand was the model for the shop Hugh Grant ran in Notting Hill. I am hoping the gentleman at the till was pleased we didn’t ask him any embarrassing questions about his resemblance to Hugh Grant or whether he has a girlfriend who looks like Julia Roberts. Instead, we were all about the books. Alison found me a delightful little book called Instructions for American Servicemen in Britain in 1942, a pamphlet from the U.S. government reprinted by the Bodleian Library at Oxford that dispensed little gems for our fighting men. My favorite: “The British don’t know how to make a good cup of coffee. You don’t know how to make a good cup of tea. It’s an even swap.” (Times have changed, even from the early 2000s — I’ve found some excellent coffee around the city.)

Geez it gets dark early, and we knew we had to head back to our hotel, so we caught the tube at Notting Hill Gate, first stopping at a cozy place for tea, then settled in for some work in the hotel lounge since we weren’t hungry. Suddenly it was 10:00 p.m. and we needed a quick bite. Our concierge recommended Nobu. NOBU. Um, not quite what we had in mind, so we headed to a Turkish restaurant over in Mayfair, where we ended up getting more than a meal, but some eye-widening entertainment.  On one side we had a table with a gentleman and two young ladies, a blond and a brunette, who were all three sheets to the wind. On the other side of us were two women of a certain age who were clearly entertained by the shenannigans going on next to us, and who provided amusing commentary on their drunken antics. When the blond stood up to go the bathroom, she knocked our salt shaker over. She could barely stand, never mind walk, so the guy made out with her a few minutes and she was off for the loo. The minute she was around the corner, the guy started making out with the brunette! Shocking! Then when the blond returned he snogged her some more, and they were off, not before cheerfully saying goodnight to the two older ladies who obviously hadn’t seen entertainment like this in quite some time. (Nor had I, to be honest. I live a sheltered life.) Anyway, we talked to them for awhile about Gordon Brown, Obama, tourism, and red light districts, and then ate our meal. Then it was back to the hotel — we passed Whisky Mist, where Prince Henry and company are frequently photographed, stumbling drunk on their way out; no sightings — and I actually got a great night’s sleep, but woke up with the scratchy throat.

So that was Wednesday. Now off to detail today, Thursday.

I seem to have miraculously revived from yesterday’s book-buying spree, and a new onslaught on London’s markets begins afresh today. I have a long post about Day 2, which I’ll work on tonight. But for today, here’s what’s on the schedule: tea and yogurt for breakfast, pronto, then a visit to the Borough Market, lunch, and then some more “sourcing,” before a stop back at the hotel, a light meal, then Billy Elliott at the Victoria Palace Theatre tonight. Knock wood, after the theatre, I’ll have enough energy to get some work done.

I arrived around 7:30 a.m. at Heathrow with very little sleep, thanks to the woman behind me who coughed the entire flight and when she wasn’t coughing, kicked my seat. But I grit my teeth and bore it, for I knew when the plane landed, I’d be in Anglophile Heaven a/k/a London.

We had a funny, loquacious driver who whisked us to our hotel, the InterContinental Park Lane, in no time flat, even though many of the streets in central London were closed off to traffic. That’s because today was the Queen’s Speech at the opening of Parliament; she traditionally travels by carriage, attended by her horse guards, which we got a quick glimpse of before they headed off to Buckingham Palace (and, by the way, I can see from my hotel room window!) on their way to the houses of Parliament.

So after a casual breakfast where we met our other travel companions, we took a short siesta, then headed off for a light lunch and spa treatment. I got a massage, which I sorely needed — my right shoulder is in knots. I figured after this, I’d fall on face with exhaustion, but it actually revived me, and I headed off for a long walk down Piccadilly, where I did some shopping at Fortnum & Mason and Waterstones, before doing some holiday window gazing in the Burlington Arcade, and more shopping on Regent Street. Now I’m back in my hotel room, getting ready for dinner (Theo Randall! Very excited!!) and then an early bedtime.

Ok, some general comments:

* I’m pretty sure I saw Judy Dench walking outside our hotel this afternoon. (ETA: confirmed by hotel manager that she, along with Nigella Lawson, were here today for some charity event.) And one of our travel companions told us Ralph Fiennes had drinks at the bar downstairs last time she was here. I’m a married woman and all, but boy did that bit of gossip/news set my pulse on fire.

* Twice today I was mistaken for a Brit, once by a British Red Cross volunteer, who looked really surprised when I said, “I’d love to sign your petition but I’m an American” and added, “But I’m flattered you took me for a native.” She laughed and said, “You *do* look like a native.” (I left my fanny pack and baseball cap at home. Shucks.) The other was a Brit asking me how to find some shop around Saville Row. He apologized for bothering me when I told him I was a tourist.

*Oh yes, the apologies. It’s so hard getting used to saying “sorry” for “excuse me.”

*People speak so quietly here — and it’s a blessed relief. The stores are quiet, even when they’re packed. I don’t even mind people who walk while talking on their mobiles because you can’t hear them. The only thing is, I’m constantly saying, “Sorry?” to hotel staff and people; I tend to stand farther away as I expect to have my ears blasted off.

Dinner at Theo Randall was lovely. I can’t go into too much detail — need to save it for work — but afterwards he came out to say hello afterwards. I had smoked eel for a starter, then a pasta with shaved white truffles for my main. My favorite dishes were in dessert (of course) — a pannacotta rich with vanilla, and my most favorite, a refreshing clementine sorbet. I could have eaten a couple bowls of it alone.

Tomorrow I’ll take some pics. We’re supposed to get a bit of snow on Thursday, which should be interesting.

Today’s the day — later this afternoon, I’ll be heading to London via Newark with my good friend (and most excellent traveling companion) Alison. My bags are packed, the batteries are charged, the passport is tucked away in my purse along with a few stray tenners I found in my office.

I’ll be reporting for a couple of magazine assignments while there (Paris as well), but I’m planning to blog about the trip as much as I can. My planned adventures include stops at Books for Cooks and Stanfords’ Maps and Books — Alison and I are planning more adventures for next year — and of course, the requisite stops at every Boots I pass. I’m very curious to see if my love affair with Boots has truly waned since I can  buy Boots’ products in the U.S. The other thing I’m worried about is falling in love with Publicisdrugstore while in Paris: I hear this place est magnifique — not quite a chemist/pharmacy, but … uh-oh, did I just use very bad French? Shame on me. I will try my best to remain loyal to my Anglo Saxon roots.

p.s. Husband and I think it’s hilarious that of all the French retailers’ websites I’ve visited in the last week, only one had a page in English — and that page was under construction. Those French — so intransigent with us English-speaking folk.

Like most Americans, I was horrified to learn of the terrorist attacks in Mumbai on Wednesday and glued myself to the television set for the rest of the evening. That’s because unlike most Americans, I’d been in Mumbai this March and actually stayed in the historic old wing of the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel in a beautiful room overlooking the Gateway of India and the Arabian Sea. Indeed, one of the reasons I was in India was to assure Americans, through my writing about food and culinary tourism, that India is worth the 18 hours or so of flight time from the U.S. My opinion on this has not been changed.

I’m deeply saddened today, because I think of all the amazing people I met — chefs, tour guides, wildlife specialists, drivers — not just in Mumbai, but in places like Udaipur and Kerala, who’ll pay for this economic blow to India’s tourism industry, and pay dearly. It’s not fair. Although it’s chilling to think that Americans and Britons may have been singled out by the terrorists at the hotels (this hasn’t been confirmed officially), is this enough reason to cross a country off a “must see” list? For many tourists, the answer will be a resounding “Yes,” even though the mortality risk is higher driving to work each day.

I thought I’d post some of my photos of the Taj Palace to give you some idea how beautiful this hotel is. As I mentioned, we stayed in a room overlooking the sea; we actually had one of those dormer rooms you see in all the news reports. I would stand in the window with my Mac laptop and talk to my son back in the U.S. via Skype, turning my web camera out toward the sea so he could see the hundreds of colorful boats bobbing in the harbor, or down toward Apollo Bunder to watch the motorized rickshaws and Ambassador cabs drop off and pick up an endless stream of passengers:

Here, inside the dome at the center of the hotel. We often skipped the elevator just so we could walk down this gorgeous staircase:

Our friendly and knowledgeable tour guide, Mr. Dubash, took us over to Elephantia Island one day. Here’s a view of the hotel from the sea. The Gateway to India is on the right:

Another view of the hotel from land:

We breakfasted in the loggia along the courtyard in the back of the hotel, which is technically the front of the hotel; the side facing the sea is in the back.

The hotel was like a cocoon for us, a buffer from the madness, noise, and mind-numbing contradictions that make up Mumbai:

Despite all that’s happened there this week, I’m eagerly counting the days when I can return to India and explore it more deeply. And if you’ve ever considered a holiday in India, please don’t let this incident affect your plans.

Maybe it’s because I’m a native New Englander, a region of the U.S. rife with quirky pronunciations, but I get a kick over British place name pronunciation. For example, I was born in New London, Connecticut, (”kinneddakit” not “connect-ti-cut”) in a hospital on the banks of the Thames (rhymes with flames) River overlooking the city of Groton (”grah-in”). Other fun New England examples:

• Worcester – “wister”
• Barre – “berry”
• Greenwich – “grennich”
• New Britain – “new brih-en” (New Englanders love glottal stops)
• Leominster – “lemminstir”
• Woburn – “woo-burn” if you’re way out in the Boston burbs, “woo-bin” if you’re a longtime Woburn resident.
• Scituate – “sitch-ew-it”
• Billerica – “bill-RIK-uh”
• Gloucester – “glosster”
• Leicester – “lester”
• Peabody – “pee-b’dee”
• Concord – “kon-kerd” or if from Boston, “kon-ked”

When I was a child I thought it was amusing that the British pronounced their Thames like “tems” and Groton like “grow-tin.” Nevertheless, the place names I encountered on first trips to the motherland were blissfully familiar since colonists borrowed place names from England when they settled New England in the 1600s. Gloucester  Road and Leicester Square tripped merrily off the tongue. (These two places are probably the most butchered names by tourists since they’re hotel and theatre centers in London.) Grosvenor Square was easy because of my appreciation of the Grateful Dead, and because there happens to be a Grosvenor Dale, Connecticut (pronounced “grovenor”) not 20 miles away from my parents’ home. And I knew Derby was “darby” because my English relatives live in Derbyshire.

Others, though, continually tangle my tongue. I hesitate with Holborn, although now that I live near Woburn, Massachusetts, it has become easier to remember. (It’s pronounced “ho-burn” or “ho-bin.”) Another one that got me for the longest time was Marylebone. I’ve finally taught myself to pronounce something like “Mar-lee-bun,” which seems to get me where I need to go especially if I say it very fast. (I refuse to argue about this: even Emma Clarke, the voice of the Underground, struggled with Marylebone.) I still haven’t gotten the Pall Mall pronunciation down — is it Pell Mell? Paul Maul? Pal MaI? I don’t want to sound like a native, but I do like to be understood.

Other English place names that can be a pronunciation minefields:

• Beauchamp Place – “beecham”

• Southwark – “sutherk”

• Magdalen College – “modlin”

• Althorp House – for many years pronounced “awl-trop” but the current Earl Spencer has changed it to “awl-thorp”

• Berkeley – “bark-lee”

• and my personal favorite, Cholmondeley – “chum-lee”

What are the English place names that trip you up? Add them to the comments section below.

A Brit for all Americans: Alistair Cooke — The 100th anniversary of his birth was last Thursday and the Independent’s Sarah Chuchwell remembers the iconic Masterpiece Theatre host. (The Independent)

Delia Smith on pumpkin pie — It’s Thanksgiving week here in the U.S., and what’s Thanksgiving without a little pumpkin pie? But please, Delia, a store-bought pastry shell? Tsk, Tsk. I’ll let you off the hook since you’re British and the recipe’s supposed to be quick. (Telegraph)

Spend Christmas in London — Take advantage of the weak £ in the capital city this winter with these 25 tips. (Telegraph)

How to get British television worldwide — Jonathan over at Anglotopia has a two-part article on how to get British shows on your telly, even if you don’t have BBC America (which, of course, doesn’t offer every British show, but at least gives you a taste).

The 28th Great Christmas Pudding Race — If you’re in London on December 6, you can watch contestants run an obstacle course around Covent Garden Market while holding trays of Christmas pudding. Yeah, only in England. (The money raised goes to charity, though.)

London’s bloody expensive, especially for someone like me who loves to dine in the city’s best restaurants. It’s why I cheerfully spend my time between meals browsing secondhand bookshops, studying portraits at the National Portrait Gallery, or simply walking around neighborhoods to enjoy the sights. I’m always on the lookout for cheap, fun things to do, so I was happy to find this clickable map on Londonist that points me to free entertainment in the city. All the museums are included, naturally, but there are interesting activities I didn’t know about, like free music at the National Theatre, M-F at 5:45 p.m. and talks about financial matters at the London School of Economics. Hey, in these dire times, it might be worth a serious listen.

My good friend (and most excellent travel companion — you’ll be hearing more about her in a couple weeks) Alison sent me a web clipping this morning about a newish hotel in London called the Rough Luxe Hotel in Kings Cross and I’m dying to stay there. This place looks fabulous with only nine rooms, but each artfully (and quirkily decorated), which accounts for the luxe. The Kings Cross location gives it the rough edge; it used to be something of a red-light district, but it has cleaned itself up recently, sort of like Times Square in NY. The hotel looks to be part of something called the Rough Luxe Network, an affiliation of hotels, shops, and restaurants around the world, including Shakespeare & Company, the very famous bookshop that I plan to visit when I’m in Paris next month.

What might be iffy for Americans are the shared baths with some of the rooms; it’s first come/first served for the en suite baths, but I was pleased to read in the Guardian review linked to Alison’s clipping that the rooms with shared baths are usually reserved by families or people traveling together who don’t mind sharing. Whew! Other cool amenities: afternoon tea served between 3:30 and 5:30 p.m., a contemporary art gallery on site (love the “This is Shit” painting — click on the Imagery link to see), and wi-fi in the rooms.

This could be a very cool, distinctive place to stay next time you’re in London — I know I’ve got it on my list. With rooms starting at £135 per night (roughly $202 USD), it’s not cheap, but it’s comparable to what you’d spend at a mid-rate hotel with lots less charm in the tourist havens.

Contact: Rough Luxe Hotel, 1 Birkenhead Street, London, WC1H 8BA. Tel: +44 (0)20 7837 5338 Fax: +44 (0)20 7837 1615 e-mail: reservations@roughluxe.co.uk