Dispatch from London, England - A Royal Sa-toot

I have visited London so many times that by now I should be over it.  But I'm not and I can't imagine that I ever will be.  London is truly one of the world's great cities and I have a such a strong affinity to it.

London has attracted people from all over the world since Roman times. I guess that's why, while it is the mother ship of all things British, London also has great diversity and a cosmopolitan flare about it.  
Plus, as the seat of the British Monarchy, London's pomp and circumstance have no rival. And I'm a sucker for some good p & c.

Speaking of p & c, I've been wandering around Westminster today and find myself in front of Buckingham Palace.  While the palace is certainly iconic, I've never been that wowed by its facade and exterior architecture.  But a number of years ago, I took my first tour of the palace interior and that changed my view of the place entirely. The interior is exquisite - I've not seen anything like it in my visits to other palaces throughout the world.  And the grounds behind the palace are beautiful too - you forget that you're in the middle of London when you are there.

Earlier I was at Horse Guards and saw some royal pageantry at the Parade.  The horses are so impressive when you are close to them.  Not surprisingly, they are in tip-top shape and are immaculately groomed.  And their eyes are soulful.  But that grace and beauty belie a horror that can lurk in the belly of the beasts, to which I have borne witness.

 

Years ago, I visited the Royal Mews behind Buckingham Palace.  It was a beautiful day and I was wandering around looking at the ceremonial coaches with my travel companion.  We were noting that some of the coaches looked smaller than we expected and so delicate - right out of a fairy tale. Others looked kind of creaky as though they might fall apart at any time.  And that behemoth of a Gold State Coach is breathtaking but it looks like it would be one heck of a bumpy ride.  I've read that the Queen is a strong person blessed with a good constitution but she must have buns of steel to ride in that thing.

We moved on to the stables to look at some of the horses.  There was almost no one else visiting the Mews that day.  It felt like we had the place to ourselves.  As we wandered around, a man in a uniform approached, greeted us, and began telling us about the horses.  He had little pretense about him, but I got the sense that he was quite a senior member of Mews staff - no doubt an important position in the horse-loving Queen's Royal Household.    


So this kind gentleman was showing us one of the horses - I think it was the one Canada gave the Queen.  All of the sudden, as if on command, with a slight flick of it's tail, the horse broke wind right in our faces.  And we are not talking about a short, sharp shot but rather a sustained exodus of furnace-like wind lasting about five seconds.  The stench was of concrete-melting intensity - my eyes watered, my gag reflex triggered, and my face twisted and contorted.  I tried to maintain some semblance of composure because the man kept talking as though the offending incident had not occurred.  Talk about a stiff British upper lip.  Keep calm and carry on, indeed.  

Now, while my travel companion possesses many admirable attributes, an ability to filter what she says and an ability to speak in hush tones are not two of them.  After the initial shock of the blast, she blurted out, "Yuck! Holy Hell! What do you feed that beast?!" and then she stomped off while theatrically waving her hands to clear the air and muttering "Holy Hell" and "I think I'm going to barf!".  I looked back at the gentleman and he just smiled, making me wonder momentarily whether the chemical weapon was launched by the horse or by him.  Anyhoo, I thanked him and staggered away, banging into things as I navigated my way through tear-filled eyes.  

As a sidebar, I recall that my sense of smell came back after a couple of days and my eyebrows grew back in about a month.

That reminds me of another story.  I heard it years ago while watching a television special about the Royals.  This man, I forget his title or connection to the situation, recounted a story about US President Reagan visiting the Queen in the 80's.  The two went for a horse-drawn cart ride in some bucolic setting - Windsor if I remember.  The horses pulling the cart were flatulating with reckless abandon (seriously, what are they feeding these animals!).  The Queen purportedly turned to Reagan and said, "Mr. President, I am sorry but there are some things that even I cannot control". To which Reagan is said to have replied, "No problem Ma'am.  If you hadn't said anything, I would've thought it was the horses".

Dispatch from Amsterdam, The Netherlands - Whatever Will Be, Will Be

So I am flying into London this morning en route to Amsterdam.  On the approach to Heathrow, we fly over the city with the early morning sun lighting her up as the fog lifts.  So beautiful - St. Paul's, the London Eye, Westminster, St. James's Park, Buckingham Palace.  When I was last in London, I remember sitting in Westminster Park watching the jets come up the Thames toward Heathrow.  Now I'm in one looking down.


From London, it's on to Amsterdam landing at Schiphol airport.  On the approach I can see lots of water, dykes, and even some windmills.  For some reason I want to sing, "It's a Small World".

Schiphol airport is beautiful - functional and aesthetically pleasing with lots of natural light.

I'm staying a bit out of the city center at the Hotel de Filosoof (Philosopher's Hotel), a great boutique hotel with each room decorated after a different philosopher.  The staff are fantastic - attentive and gracious in an understated way.

After settling in, I'm off to explore the city to clear some of my jet lag cobwebs.  All right Amsterdam, what have you got for me?  

After wandering through the Vondelpark, I head into the city center. Despite it being a bleak day with a gray sky and some rain, the city is beautiful, with its web of canals and distinct architecture.  In the street markets, in contrast to the gray weather, there are huge bunches of tulips and other flowers with riotous colors.  




And everyone seems to be smiling.  Are they all high?  The only time they seem not to smile is when you are not in your demarcated lane.  Amsterdam has clearly painted lanes on the roads for every mode of transport: trams, cars, bikes, pedestrians.  And as I quickly find out, if you stray out of your lane, you get the stink eye.  There are bikes everywhere and the people are adept at riding them, weaving around people and trams while holding an umbrella and talking on the phone.  Wow, now that's a talent.


OK, a random thought. I'm noticing that the coat of arms for Amsterdam contains "XXX".  With the city's red light district, is that where X-rated comes from?  Must not be - that's silly.






It appears that there is an Indonesian restaurant on every street corner.  Who knew that Amsterdammers love Indonesian food so much. There must be a reason so I pick a place near the market and venture in. The place is completely empty because it is mid-afternoon between meal times.  But before I can duck out, a woman comes from the back, wiping her hands on her apron and motions for me to sit down.  I do and, after she composes herself and finds the cook (maybe he was napping somewhere between service), I end up having an outstanding Nasi Goreng that was prepared fresh just for me.  And I wash it down with a Heineken.  What a great first meal in Amsterdam on a rainy day.

But when the food and beer hit my belly, the jet lag bangs me over the head...hard.  I head back to the hotel.  As I'm walking by a square, my attention is drawn to this elderly woman standing in the light rain wearing a bright red kerchief and a blue trench (if you're from North America, think of the cartoon character "Maxine" on Hallmark greeting cards.  If you're from elsewhere in the world, think of an old lady in a red kerchief and a blue trench).  Seemingly without a care in the world, she is banging a tambourine and belting out, "Que sera, sera!  Whatever will be, will be!  The future's not ours to see!  Que sera, sera!".  It doesn't appear that she is doing this for money and no one is paying her much attention but I can't stop watching as I walk by (and into a bike lane, earning me the second stink eye of the day).

Back at the hotel, I'm flopped on the bed drifting in and out, with a picture of Rodin's "The Thinker" above me.  And I can't get that damn song out of my head.  "Que sera, sera...".  

Dispatch from Bora Bora, French Polynesia - Run Asunder Thunder Blunder

Ia Orana from the South Pacific!

Yesterday I arrived in Bora Bora.  I flew from L.A. to Pape'ete, Tahiti, where, despite it being the middle of the night, I and the other passengers were greeted on arrival by a French Polynesian band and a group of women in traditional dress each placing a hei of gardenias around each passenger's neck.  I have to say that while the greeting was incredibly gracious, the pungent smell of the gardenias made me kind of dizzy but I didn't want to be disrespectful and toss them.  By the time I got to the luggage area, I was so bedecked in heis, I looked like a float in the Rose Parade. 


I stayed in Pape'ete overnight. After only a few hours of sleep, I boarded a small prop plane and flew to Bora Bora, landing on a tiny island that was not much more than a sun-baked landing strip and a small terminal building.  I was expecting to see Tattoo pointing up at the plane as we approached.  After landing, it was on to a luxurious yacht to head to the resort.  Upon boarding, I was presented with more beautiful-but-wheeze-inducing heis and a vanilla tea that was lovely but, I have to say, not my thing (regrettably, I "accidentally" spilled the tea overboard and was not able to enjoy it...).  

Bora Bora is a group of volcanic islands surrounded by a reef that encases the whole area creating a giant lagoon.  On the center island, two volcanic mountains jut up into the sky.

If paradise was lost, I think I found it.  This place is so beautiful that it doesn't seem real.  The waters are a mix of mesmerizing greens and blues that are so vibrant, it's as though the water has been dyed.

The resort buildings are on stilts over the water.  When the yacht docked, I was led to the lobby - an open air structure over the water teeming with exotic fish.  After checking in, with my heis flapping in the breeze, I was whisked away by golf cart to my bungalow.

The staff are so friendly. As you pass them, they blurt out "hello" in Tahitian, which is spelled "Ia Orana" but phonetically sounds like "yo-rah-nah!".  And when said while zipping by in a cart, it sounds more like "Yo Momma!".

The resort is nestled on a secluded beach at the base of a hill.  There are several buildings that house restaurants, an awesome tiered infinity pool, and these walkways that jut out into the water like spines leading to bungalows that are attached like ribs to the spine.  The walkways and bungalows are elevated above the water.

From the outside, the bungalows are thatched-roof wooden structures that look very rustic. Inside, they are anything but.  Wow.  My bungalow is decorated in dark woods with white curtains billowing from the ocean breezes.  There is a living room with a sofa that has built-in end tables with glass tops that open to the water below so you can feed the fish.  There is a huge canopy bed.  The bathroom is stone-clad with glass on the floor next to the tub looking down into the water.  It makes you feel like you are floating in the ocean.  At one end of the bungalow, there are floor-to-ceiling windows opening to a private deck that lead down stairs to a water level swimming platform.  At night, you can turn on lights that illuminate the water below the bungalow and fill the room with shimmering blue reflections.  Spectacular.  I don't want to leave this place.  This is bliss.


After I arrived yesterday, I fell asleep on a lounge chair on my deck.  I think I was dreaming about this place not being real, but rather a colossal human-made theme-park joke, where Disney characters come through your door and put on a show.  Then, out of nowhere, this deafening clap of thunder launched me out of my seat.  It was all too real.  I screamed like a school girl and, I think, peed a little.  That night there was a violent thunderstorm but in this setting in my bungalow oasis, it was incredibly romantic and again seemed like it might just be special effects for a theme-park attraction.


Anyhoo, today is a spa day.  The spa at the resort is high on a hill not surprisingly in a lush, tranquil setting.  I'm told this is a revered, spiritual area for the locals.  I'm greeted by my therapist who is a gentle giant - big muscle guy but soft spoken and so polite.  He leads me to a private bungalow room with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out to the mountains and lush, green foliage.  The massage table is set up in the middle of this beautiful space. 

So I drop trou', and while with my pronounced tan lines I must have the whitest butt he's ever seen, he keeps it cool and goes to work, plying me with a mixture of cocoa and coffee oils that makes me smell like a Mocha Frappuccino from Starbucks.  The massage is fan-freakin'-tastic.

Afterward, we start to chat.  He tells me a bit about life in French Polynesia and I answer his questions about my impressions and where I'm from.  In the course of our talk, I mention the storm yesterday.  He hesitates as if he's processing whether to tell me something.  He then rather sheepishly begins to tell me a story.  

Yesterday, he and his colleague were giving a couples massage to a Japanese husband and wife in the very room where we are now.  The husband fell asleep and was snoring loudly.  When the big clap of thunder that launched me out of my lounge chair happened, the hubby yelped, jumped up, and fell off the massage table.  He then picked himself up, ran screaming and butt-naked across the spa room, smashed into a sliding glass door, and fell in a heap on the floor.  He was shaken but not hurt.  My therapist and his colleague tended to the guy and after a bit, the couple left.  The therapists then noticed that on the glass door against which the guy splatted, there was a greasy massage oil outline of his body, like a Keith Haring drawing (Google it).  They both lost it and fell to the floor laughing. 

When he finishes the story, the therapist looks at me quietly to gauge my reaction.  I look over at the door - the scene of the crime - and look back at my guy.  We both burst into laughter.  You can't make this stuff up.

Nana!

Dispatch from Tokyo, Japan - There's an App for That

So this is my first time in Tokyo.  

I flew from Chicago next to a young Japanese woman who captivated me.  She downed a beer when we first took off.  Then she promptly went to sleep and slept most of the flight, sitting motionless with her hands cupped on her lap and her head cradled in an inflatable pillow.  At times I wondered if she was even breathing.  But after service of the second meal - noodles with broth - she woke up.  She had missed the service of the hot water for the noodles and didn't appear to speak any English, so I banked some karma points for the days ahead when I wouldn't know the language and got her some hot water.  She was grateful and slurped the noodles and drank the broth in the most elegant way.  Here we were only over Alaska and already I felt like I was in Asia.

I could tell that she wanted to get up to use the washroom but we were boxed in by a rather substantial creature asleep and snoring in the aisle seat.  I could tell she was reluctant to rouse him.  So I squeezed my swollen feet (why does that happen on long flights?) into my shoes, popped my seat belt, and tugged on the guy, who after a few pokes finally woke and moved, and the Japanese lady and I escaped to use the facilities.

Then when we were preparing to land, she pulled out wet wipes from her bag, washed her feet, put on her shoes, dabbed her face with an oil remover, applied some powder, deflated her pillow, and was good to go.  What a sweety.  I wonder what her story is.

Anyhoo, Tokyo's Narita Airport is such a delight - immaculate and efficient.  And the staff are so gracious, from the custom agents, to the baggage handlers, to the bus ticket sellers.  Good Lord, what must the Japanese think when they are at some North American airports?

I break my rule of springing for a cab after a long haul flight and take the bus, since I'm told the cab fare will come in at a whopping $200!  I'm staying at the Hotel Okura in the diplomatic district.  When I arrive, staff come scurrying out to line up and greet the bus like I'm the Earl of Grantham.  I am shepherded into the hotel and greeted with bows across the board.  After checking in with ease, I stand next to my luggage and with a snap of his fingers, this stately looking bell captain in morning clothes assigns a bell hop to show me to my room.  

The bell hop is a young, chubby kid.  And he does not roll my 40 pound bag, but rather picks it up and carries it.  I point to the wheels but he quietly shakes his head and, after an elevator ride operated by a lady in a kimono (honestly, I feel like I am in a movie), we proceed down long corridors with him puffing and panting and sweating profusely.  At one point we pass two housekeeping staff members.  When they see me they back against the wall and bow.  I bow back.  After passing them, I hear them giggle so I guess I didn't do that right, or maybe they were giggling at the bell hop who by now was in a full-on flop sweat.

In broken English, the bell hop shows me my room which is a sanctuary - unbelievably well appointed.  And he proceeds to brief me on all the bells and whistles, while soaked in sweat.  I'm thinking that I should offer him some water.  But before I can, he bows one last time and disappears.  I'm left alone in this beautiful room.  

And this room is wired like mission control for a space flight. I've heard about Japanese electronic toilets but the one in my room is super deluxe!  This is by far the highest tech toilet my tush has ever graced.  It has more buttons than my tv remote.  There are fans, seat warmers, and lights.  And then there are a myriad of bidet options.  I'm not sure what they're all for, but if you press them all at once, a show not unlike the dancing fountains at the Bellagio Hotel in Vegas takes place.  It's an exceedingly civilized experience in the end (pardon the pun).

So I shower and don my yukata (a kimono-type robe for guys and gals) and flop on the bed.  Next to the bed is more electronica - a command center with a remote that allows you to control the lights, open and close the blinds and curtains, turn on music, adjust the temperature, set an alarm, and who knows what else.  I'm sure you could time travel with this thing if you knew how to use the advanced options.

I am blissfully content.  Next thing I remember, I start and jump a little.  I become aware that I'm lying in a puddle of drool.  I must have fallen asleep.  What's that noise.  I look over and the window blinds are going up and down.  What is happening?  Is the room possessed by some spirit?  What's poking into me?  Oh no, okay, I've fallen asleep on the remote.  People outside must think I'm sending some emergency SOS message with the blinds.  Sorry Tokyo for that most inauspicious start.

Dispatch from Capri, Italy - Stairway to Heaven

So it's another serendipitously beautiful day in Capri.  I arrived yesterday and am staying at a cozy hotel near the main port.  While I've been to Capri before, I'm once again stunned by the beauty of the island.  Last evening, I took the funicular up to the center and walked to the south end of the island, looking out over the azure blue water and the rocks jutting up as the sun set.  It was so beautiful,it hurt.

Anyhoo, I'm traveling alone and the great thing about today is that I have no plans, so I set out to wander the lesser trodden parts of the island where I have not been before.  I head west and putter through some residential areas where locals are enjoying their weekend. While I am walking I can't take my eyes off this breathtaking cliff soaring into the sky.  Anacapri must be on top.  On the side of the cliff, there appears to be a road slicing across it, but I can also see some sort of a path winding up to the top.  I decide to investigate.

After a few false leads and dead ends, I stumble upon a sign that reads "Scala Fenecia" and stone stairs appearing to lead up the cliff.  Not knowing what I am in for, I decide to head up the stairs for a bit to see what I find.  There is no one else around.  I'm questioning my decision to wear jeans and not shorts but I have some water and figure I can easily turn back at any point. So up I go. And up and up and up.

The steps and path seem pretty well-maintained but they are stone and uneven.  I'm huffing and puffing and sweating bullets.  And the increasing drop down to the bottom of the cliff is making me a bit dizzy.

I turn one corner and am startled by a cat.  I scream a little bit and freeze.  We are staring each other down.  I wonder if the cat is some ancient spirit warning me against proceeding but I win the stare off, the cat scampers away, and I steel my resolve to continue.  Now I'm on a mission.

Eventually, I make it to the road that I saw from the bottom slicing across the cliff and I know I am high up.  I almost turn back because at this point the path smells like a toilet and there is this netting over the rock face presumably to stop falling rocks.  But the path goes under the road and there is nothing to stop me from getting beaned by a bottle thrown from a passing car (or squished by a falling car!).  So I hold my breath and scoot along as fast as I can to make it above the road.  I see a marker that depicts ancient people coming down the stairs and that inspires me to forge on.

After a seemingly endless hike up and up the steps, all of the sudden, I pop out into a square that is bustling with tourists.  I am a bit rattled because the whole time on the stairs, I have not seen another soul.  In turn, I startle a group of people who are taking pictures of the panoramic views.  They look at me in horror wondering where I've come from.  I'm huffing and puffing, I'm dirty, and I'm drenched in sweat.  I stagger past them to sit in the shade under a tree. The people are still looking at me (and I think a couple are taking pictures); they must think I live on the cliff.  I should stick a hat out and collect some change from them but I'm too tired.  I must be in Anacapri. 

Then a tour guide with a group of English-speaking tourists comes by near to where I am. He points to where I came from and tells the group that it is the entrance to the famed  Phoenician Steps, named for those who built them in the 8th century BC!  He says there are 924 steps, not 799 like many guide books state, because of some reconstruction a few years back.  He says they are some of the oldest stairs in Europe and they take you back in time when you go down them.  He then emphasizes the point that people go down the stairs, they never come up.  Doh!!!

Dispatch from Miami, Florida – See You Gator

So it’s a blazing hot day in Miami.  Friends have convinced me to go for a bike ride in the Everglades.  The humidity is so high that I feel like I’m bound in plastic wrap but what the hell, I’ve convinced myself that this is a great opportunity to commune with nature.

When we get to Everglades National Park, we rent creaky bikes from this old guy in this dodgy little shack.  He tells us not to ride over bird poop on the trail because there may be fish bones in it that could puncture a tire.  Why did I not process this advice and just go wait in the car?

But no, onward and forward we go.  The trail is 15 miles long; 8 miles to a viewing platform and 7 miles back.  The trail is paved with cracked old asphalt and is as wide as a driveway.  It’s elevated a couple of feet, I gather to avoid flooding.  Because it’s the start of the rainy season, the water is right up to the trail.  Immediately we see alligators in the water and along the banks of the trail.  Oh, and did I mention, there are no fences bordering the trail (?!).

As we putter along, it seems like the gators are getting bigger and there are a lot more of them.  And they all appear to be facing the trail.  Hhhmmm.  But I can’t pay attention to that – I’m obsessively avoiding bird poop on the trail, weaving around like a drunkard.

And riddle me this - how come we appear to be the only ones on the trail biking?  Every now and then, a tram whizzes by taking smarter people than I on a tour in the safety of a motorized vehicle in splendidly canopied comfort (in my defense, my tree-hugging friend didn’t present the tram option to me at the outset…).  But otherwise, we are alone in the gatorhood.

Many miles into the trek, we see something on the trail ahead.  Gadzooks!  It’s a gator!  The massive beast is on the trail and has taken a big dump (which, when you think about it, is deliciously ironic since we humans tend to stop at the side of the road and go into the bushes to do our business).

What do we do?  Turn back?  Will we provoke the alligator if we ride by it?  At this point I am in a full-on flop sweat and blind panic attack.  My friend tells me that it’s fine to ride by it and not to worry because alligators only eat once a month.  Well how the hell do I know what time of the month it is for this gator?  And we know that this beast has made room in his belly by vacating on the trail. 

My friends decide to proceed and the only thing I can think of that is worse than riding by this gator is the prospect of being left alone in this place, so I follow.  One by one we ride by this creature and it does not bat an eyelash (do gators even have eye lashes?).  Well now I’m feeling proud of myself and very Crocodile Dundee-ish for conquering my fear.  We complete the trek.  I am at one with nature.  I’m also dehydrated and I look like a salt lick.  Oh, and next time, I’m taking the tram.

Postscript:  So it’s a week later and I’m in Paris.  I’m in my hotel room and have the tv tuned to CNN International.  They are airing a story about the Florida Everglades being overrun with huge pythons.  Stupid people get these snakes as pets and, when the snakes become unmanageable, they release them in the Everglades where they thrive and grow to upwards of 30 feet long!  Then the reporter cuts to a picture of a dead python that wildlife officials recently discovered.  The snake has exploded and there is a dead alligator protruding from its belly.  This snake is so big that it has eaten an alligator and this has all gone down where I was biking a week ago!  I’m dizzy.  The room starts spinning.  I fall onto the hotel bedspread face first.  Ew!

Dispatch from Beverly Hills, California - Fallin’ for Fiddy

So I am at my beloved Beverly Hills Hotel on Sunset Boulevard.  Years ago a client put me up here when I was in L.A. on business and I fell in love with the place.  When I’m in town and feel a splurge is in order, I return.

Anyhoo, my TC (Travel Companion) and I are staying in an oh-so grand room in the main wing of the hotel.  Upon returning from a night on the town, we noticed that the room around the corner from ours had a burly, menacing security guard (think Mike Tyson but angrier looking) posted in the hall.  We wondered who might be staying there but then forgot about it. 

Now it’s the next morning and we are heading out.  Just as we exit our room, an entourage of people exits the room that was being guarded the night before.  Now there are a half dozen of these gi-normous Tyson types with more bling than Joan Rivers on QVC and our paths are intersecting.  My TC moves aside but I get uppity and think that as a repeat guest of the BHH, I do not need to yield to this band of bullies so I end up kind of merging into their crew as we descend the main staircase to the lobby. 

Just then my sunglasses fall from their perch on top of my head down over my eyes.  I am trying to be cool and unaffected so I just leave them.  Bad idea.  Just as we near the lobby, I trip and fall down the stairs, shooting out of this entourage like a bad gutter ball into the lobby.  As I lay in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, everyone from the lobby is looking to see what happened (including, ironically, Chevy Chase who used to parody President Ford doing the same thing), the concierge is running toward me asking if I am OK, my TC is pretending not to know me, and the rapper 50 Cent (whose entourage I later learn it is) says, ”That’s what happens when you wear shades inside”, as he and his crew step over me and keep on walking.  

Not my finest hour.  

So what do you think the chances are that the hotel saved the footage of that fiasco from their security cameras, put it on a gag reel, and looped it continuously at their seasonal staff party?  I think pretty high.