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Train Travel

We had decided to take the train to London. I like the variety and the ride and it’s really very pleasant, relaxed and a great way to see the countryside. Of course, one does have to get on the train first, and we had a little difficulty with that aspect of the proposition. The reason goes back to our decision before leaving for the trip to buy new luggage. We got three new matching pieces and two of them are huge rolling suitcases: one for him, one for her with the third piece just a junior sized version of the monsters. These things are so big it’s embarrassing. But anyway, we showed no embarrassment about filling them with 150 lbs of stuff. And then stuffing Junior and the standard rolling fight bag with another 100 lbs. Of course there was the golf bag, as well, with two sets of clubs, umbrellas, shoes, raingear, etc.

Arriving at the Edinburgh train station with our luggage in plenty of time to have a leisurely cup of chocolate, we garnered two rolling carts and piled them high with our bags: the two monster mates, big junior, the double golf bag, and the rolling flight bag. The briefcase, purses and assorted shopping bags don’t count since we always carry them anyway. I always thought that we should use three carts, but there are only the two of us and pushing three presents logistical problems, you know? But not to worry, we didn’t knock anybody down and made platform 19 about 15 minutes ahead of departure and waited confidently for the train.

Only to learn that Britrail had decided to switch tracks and that our train was going to arrive on platform 32, which was on the other side of the station. Not only on the other side of the station, but across some tracks as well. This required two elevator trips: one up in front of the tracks, and then one down on the other side. Of course, the elevators are painfully slow and there were a hundred other American tourists trying to do the same thing. And well, ... it was problematic as to whether or not we’d make it.

But we did. Whew! Wiping the sweat off my dripping face I managed a genuine smile. Hey, these last minute curve balls can be fun if you just have the right attitude. And I’ve worked hard over the years to develop that attitude. All us tourists began to exchange relieved pleasantries, stories about the “great crossing” and chat about the dumb track switch, etc. Until the Britrail conductor on platform 32 informed us that “The Flying Scotsman” was pulling in on platform 19 and that Britrail had decided to go back to their original plan.

Are you kidding? There were only five minutes now until the scheduled departure. And the baggage train caravan took at least ten minutes to cross the station. But no choice in this matter, off we went, this time everybody trying to crowd into the elevators at once. Joey got in and I didn’t. As the doors closed on her I yelled, “don’t let them leave without me!”

As she waited for elevator number two to take her down to the other side she told the Britrail man at the elevator, “my husband’s coming. Don’t let the train leave without him.” She was assured that that wouldn’t happen, and the Britrail man put his walkie talkie up to his mouth and said something, like: “hold the train. Her husband’s coming.” But you know, you’re pushing all this luggage around, huffing and puffing, fighting other luggage pushers like it’s rush hour on the Long Island Expressway and you tend to lose perspective. We didn’t really think he pushed the talk button when he did that.

When I got to that elevator, I saw him pull the same ruse on some other panicky traveler. Anyway, they did wait for me, though I was the last person to arrive at the train. And then we tried to load the luggage into the luggage racks of our train car. But of course, the luggage racks are made for normal sized pieces of luggage, not the elephantine containers that we had, and so they wouldn’t fit. The train wants to pull out, I can tell from all the shouting and running around, but my luggage is half in and half out and we’re gesticulating like two Italians at a pizza-baking contest.

A man offered to help us. He said he’d take the bags for us and put them in the luggage car. I was so stressed I just gave up on the idea of putting the bags on myself and said, “great!” We put all five pieces on the man’s baggage cart. You can pick these up in London, he informed me. “Do I get a tag?” I asked, “Or a receipt?” “No,” was the reply. He could see the worry on my face. “We do this sort of thing all the time. I’ll personally call down to London and tell them to get your bags off for you,” he said. I looked pretty helpless. And clueless too, I’m sure, then he smiled and turned away with the bags.

I got on the train. But I felt somehow incomplete; I should have gotten a receipt. A few minutes into the trip it all seemed like the perfect con to me: Man wearing semi-official looking Railway uniform waits on platform until he sees dumb American tourist struggling with his personal baggage, steps in and offers help, takes all the bags from the dumb tourist and loads them in his own lorry and drives happily away! Tourist wakes up 4 hours later in London and says, “Where are my bags, please?” Britrail people look sadly at the duped tourist and then to each other, and whisper the dreaded epithet “Stupid Americans.”

So now I’m embarrassed to admit to my wife that I’ve been taken by this con man on the train platform. And I start to inventory the stuff in the bags. What have I lost? The truth was that none of it was irreplaceable and I breathe a big sigh of relief. Except... her jewelry. “Darling?...” She looks at me. “Where is your jewelry?” She points to the little bag over her head and says, “I never pack it in the suitcases.” “Ah, you genius,” I think, “I love you!” And then I share my fears with her.

I felt both dumb and quite relieved when we got to Kings Cross Station in London that afternoon and the bags appeared from the luggage car just like the nice Britrail man said they would. So relieved, in fact, that I got two porters to put them on carts and push them out to the taxi for us. I could afford the two-pound tip now that I didn’t have to replace all that stuff that wasn’t so irreplaceable anyway.



London

London started off with much anticipation as we took the ride through Mayfair and Picadilly down towards the river and a new Hotel in Whitehall that our American Express Travel Agent had highly recommended. Unfortunately we had a big problem with the place, The Royal Horse Guards: it was a dump. You could tell right away upon entering the lobby. It looked like a dump, smelled like a dump, and felt like a dump. The only thing missing was Bette Davis flicking her ashes on the worn carpet as she said, “What a Dump!”

I couldn’t understand what went wrong. The travel agent swore that this was a Platinum Hotel. Then to complicate matters, at the front desk the Desk Clerk handed me a sheet for signature that showed the room rate as a hundred pounds a night higher that what I was told. The Desk Clerk was an Italian girl. I expected simpatico. I expected understanding. I expected to resolve the problem. But I could hardly hear or understand her. And she apparently couldn’t understand me, either, judging from all the blank looks I was getting. I tried to tell her that the rate information was wrong and that I wanted to get it straightened out before checking in. I wasn’t making much headway.

Finally, the Head Desk Clerk, a large officious German woman with a pronounced accent that lent a kind of James Bond surrealism to the moment, stepped in and said, “zee compuuters are down. Vee vill check on zee rate later.” The German moved behind the desk like Dick Butkus moved behind his defensive line: with confidence and a leering anticipation for combat. I was hesitant to agree to that scenario and suggested that first I see the room. “Zertainly,” the Meister Frau snapped. She bit the word off like she was biting into a large sausage.

Joey and I headed for the elevator and told the two bellmen who had racked up all the luggage to “wait here. Please.” The room was worse than the lobby. It reminded us of a broken down road motel in Saugerties, New York run by derelict Indian immigrants. It was laughable, really, but as we stepped out of the room on our way back down to the lobby, there were the two bellmen with the carts and all the luggage. “She told us to bring it up,” one of them offered lamely.

“Follow me,” I said, and strode manfully towards the elevators. Back down to the lobby and over to the desk we proceeded, like a scene from Wagon Train. I went right up to the German, gave her the key back and told her the room was not acceptable. “It’s zee ONLY rrroom availuhbull,” she said with a confrontational tone in her voice. “I won’t take it,” I said as pleasantly as I could. “Vell, zee only other rrroom is a zweet.” I thought I should try to be open minded, or appear so anyway, so I said, “Okay, I’ll look at that.” Joey cringed, but we went up to the “Egyptian Suite” to have a look anyway. It was dark and spooky, sort of like King Tut’s tomb. We didn’t even bother going in. You understood everything you needed to know from the open doorway.

When the “Egyptian Suite” key hit the marble counter in front of Fraulien Butkus she looked up coldly at me. I shook my head, “no.” She said, “I shall have to charge you for two nights... no cancellation notice.” “Vee vill zee about dat, Fraulien,” I responded and feeling better now that I had successfully avoided getting taken for a second time on this travel day, I moved to the Concierge’s desk, used his phone, called Dukes Hotel in St. James and got a wonderful room for the next four London nights. Our excellent London adventure was back on track. That Horse Guards was really sucko.

As soon as we walked into Dukes the glow returned. This is “our” London Hotel. A place we’ve enjoyed before, and the place our boys made famous on their Swinging London Pub Tour. We were sort of half expecting an old bill for damages to come up on the computer when they entered our name, but... thank goodness, all that had been forgotten.

The only disappointment at Dukes was that Gilberto, the Italian bartender, who was renowned for his Martini making had retired two weeks earlier. Not to worry, we were told, he had trained his successor, Roberto, for two years and they were sure we’d be pleased. In fact, Roberto was good. But the truth is, he lacked Gilberto’s theatrical flair: that perfect setting out of the chilled glass, that flourish with the Vermouth beaker that suggested “this is the only possible proportion that makes sense,” that unabashed reverence for the Tangueray, and after pausing dramatically, that perfectly timed twist of the lemon rind. It was all so bellissimo. Plain and simple, there’s only one Gilberto.

Nevertheless, we enjoyed cocktails in the bar, had a few cautious laughs about Steve and Mike’s excellent adventure (still half expecting someone looking like Jeeves to formally present us with an envelope on a sterling silver platter detailing the escapade), and then decided to go to the theatre for the evening. In a few minutes, the Concierge produced two tickets for “The Lieutenant of Inishmore,” a production of the Royal Shakespeare Company, and we were off.

“The Lieutenant of Inishmore” is a black, black, very black comedy about the I.R.A. It seems there’s a splinter group developing around the town of Inishmore, and three I.R.A. regulars aim to put a stop to it by assassinating the splinterers. There’s lots of gun pointing, torture, confused Irish logic, crazy macho “fecks” going on about the “feckin Brits,” the “feckin’ troubles” and the “feckin splinter groups.” And in the end, shootin’ the feckin eyeballs out of the three regulars before finally killin’ the “dumb fecks.”

Every gunshot produces streams of blood. There’s blood all over the stage, all over all of the feckin characters, and to Joey’s screaming horror, all over the feckin cats, too, which figure heavily in the story, Wee Thomas being the name of the lead cat. In the final act the three I.R.A. regulars are dismembered on stage by the feckin splinterers before they feckin start killing each other. Feck! There’s blood, gore, and body parts everywhere.

It’s absolutely brilliant and wonderful. You cannot believe what you’re laughing at. I did think once or twice that the old Garrick Theatre might be the target of an I.R.A. bomb that night (so brilliantly vicious was this play) but we exited safely into the rainy London night, walked a couple of blocks from the theatre and found a taxi to take us back to our digs at Dukes.

Wimbledon

The next day, our big Wimbledon day, dawned wet and gray and rainy. I saw one forecast that called for clearing skies in the afternoon and sunshine, and determined that I wouldn’t look at any others. That’s the one I wanted to believe. When I returned to the Hotel after my morning coffee and paper read, Joey was having her breakfast. I nibbled on her uneaten toast, tested the marmalade, which I do love, and continued to read the British Press which has absolutely no qualms about publicly dismembering anybody.

Earlier in the year, a dear friend of ours had confidently said that he could get us tickets to Wimbledon, an offer that I quickly took him up on, and persistently reminded him of. I think Ron might have had to scramble just a bit, but through a fraternity pal who works at ABC Sports, he produced! The tickets were waiting for us at Horse Guards. (I made sure to grab them from the kraut before I said, “Nien, Dumbkopf. Danke, anyway.”)

And what tickets they were: luncheon and cocktails at one and tea at four in the IMG (Mark McCormack’s International Management Group) pavilion and Centre Court seats for the afternoon. Is it too much of cliché to say we were in heaven? We were. We sat in the tent eating, drinking and schmoozing for the first three hours of a rain delay having a gay old time. When I introduced myself to Mr. McCormack he looked a little puzzled, but graciously bade me to enjoy, which I proceeded to do. The salmon was truly superior and the wine... well, what kind of wine do you think they’d serve at a deal like this? Not the stuff that’s on sale down at your local Licker Locker, I’ll tell ya. It was pretty good.

After the rain delay, play resumed and we strolled over to Centre Court to see Mauresmo decapitate Capriotti and Henman take a set from Sa. Being there with Tim and the crowd was more fun than you can imagine. They’re all just nutty about Henman and it was great to get caught up in it. Joey had a really good time photographing the teenagers with painted faces on Henman Hill. We’ve got extra pictures in case you’re interested.

Our Wimbledon day ended with a happy ride home on the “underground” and a light late meal at Franco’s Italian Restaurant where we parsed and re-parsed the day again and again. You can’t get enough of a vacation like this, it’s just so good for the soul and so good for the pair of you. All the dumb details of life just quietly evaporate in the sunshine of the endless fun.

A Country Two Ball

Now, the next day I had scheduled a trip to Canterbury to see Marlowe’s birthplace, home and school. I felt that as an amateur Marlowe scholar, I really needed to cover all the historical bases for my own personal knowledge, if not to justify my Life Membership in the Society. But the truth is that we had had so much fun playing golf the week before in Scotland, that we wanted to play some more. Marlowe could wait. After all we were going to Westminster Abbey the next day to see the memorial window in his honor. I shared my golf idea with the Hotel staff and they easily arranged a game for us at “Traditions Golf Course” in the town of West Byfleet, Surrey.

Our plan was to get to West Byfleet by train, then take a cab to the course.
We bought our tickets at Waterloo Station and had only a few minutes to get on the next train. Wheeling the large double golf bag without even a hint of self-consciousness, we made it, golf bag standing silently next to me in the empty seat. Only to read the train schedule that I had gotten from the Hotel and realize that every train didn’t make every stop. “Wait! Does this train stop at West Byfeet?” Off we got, dragging the bag of clubs, frantically looking for a train attendant, then back on we got when satisfied that it, indeed, was the train stopping at West Byfleet. The clubs took the seat next to me again.

West Byfleet was the ninth stop of eleven. It’s west of London about thirty miles, right out the river Thames. As we rode out, at every stop an automated voice recording gave the station stop then said, “The doors are now activated,” meaning that if you press the appropriate button they will open for you. Then when the train was about to move, the buttons were deactivated.

Confident that I understood how this worked, shortly before we got to West Byfleet, I dragged the bag through the aisles to the door, and waited to hit the button. “West Byfleet,” the voice said, “The doors are now activated.” I hit the button and nothing happened. The door didn’t open. I hit the button again: nothing again. Hit the other button: still nothing. Now, panicking, I read the little sign that said, “This door out of service,” and looked around for another door. Damn! There wasn’t one on that car so we charged into the next, bag in tow, slamming everyone and everything in our way to get to the next set of doors. Again the buttons, I hit them, I begged them. I pleaded. But the doors didn’t open. Then deactivation and we were trapped! And on our way to Woking.

Of course, I didn’t know anything about Woking, like how far away from West Byfleet it was, whether or not we could get a taxi in Woking, why I didn’t see the “out of service” sign back in the other car, or why I didn’t scope this whole getting off process out sooner. So we just had to grin and bear it. The doors worked perfectly at Woking. And it all turned out fine. We got a very pleasant taxi ride through the English Countryside, which, by the way, is gorgeous, to Traditions in plenty of time for our game, a two ball, as they call it.

After all that golf in Scotland with all the American tourists, it was so different and so wonderful to play golf in England, with nary an American in sight, and so much cheaper, too. In fact, we may have been the first Americans to play “Traditions.” The locals couldn’t get over the fact that we were staying in London and actually took the train to West Byfleet ... well, okay, Woking, to play golf! It was certainly the first time these locals had ever heard anything of the sort. I think they were sort of charmed by our presence. It wasn’t like the Royal Family coming to visit or anything like that, but, on the other hand, American tourists from London were just exotic enough to cause a bit of a stir.

Now this wasn’t a high-powered private club, mind you, but rather a local public course, so the golfers there could not have been more representative. And they couldn’t have been nicer, either, or more receptive to our presence. When I drove the front trap on the par four 336 yard seventh while the foursome ahead was putting out on the green, my apology on the next tee was warmly received and greeted with a, “no problem, mate, I wasn’t upset at all, just envious.”

The golf course itself was nice enough, and very modest by the standards of the previous week. Joey displayed her, by now, usual flashes of brilliance and made a number of really nice pars. But at times there were also bouts of turf banging and streams of profanity that were... well, simply inexplicable. Her bunker play, while improving thanks to Frank’s boonker tips, still defined her round. Traditions saw one or two nice “outs” and one prolonged spasm of futility on the par three third hole that was truly monumental. She went at the bunker problem upwards of fifteen times with a kind of demonic energy that defied human dimensions. It was a spectacular display of ineptitude. Only the soothing pint of Guiness afterwards truly calmed her.

Golf for the Mister was as pleasant as a walk in the Country, which is exactly what it was. My knees and back and head had had time to recuperate from the heavy Scottish schedule, and walking pain free was a nice experience. I particularly enjoyed the walks between the holes, which often went through little groves of trees and underbrush. The dirt trails and sunlight penetrating the leafy overhead canvas exactly replicated the look of the Sherwood Forrest of my boyhood movie version of “Robin Hood” with Errol Flynn. I half expected Little John or Friar Tuck to pop out from behind a tree at every turn. Or maybe even Robin Hood himself.

One of the best things on this day was the long and rambling conversation we had with two local fellows in the Clubhouse at the conclusion of our round. “Happy Independence Day,” John said as he raised his glass. “Thanks,” said I, as I raised my glass in return, “Independence from Britain, it was!” We all had a good laugh. Good golf, good Guiness, good food and good conversation: it was an all around good day.

The train trip back to Waterloo was uneventful. The doors behaved. And so did the baggage. And we only thought once, though it was wistfully, about our dinky Fourth of July parade down Midland Avenue, way way back home in New Jersey.

We laid around the Hotel room that evening watching Wimbledon on the BBC. No commercials! It was really different and so engaging. And you’d never believe it but the commentators actually made sense! After all my commentator bashing over the years, this was a revelation for me.

Nearly sated with good times and good feelings, we capped off the day with another late night meal at Franco’s, and went to bed with the sad understanding that the next day, Friday, was to be our last full day abroad.

Marlowe

Aside from playing the links courses of Scotland and celebrating our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary, the purpose of this trip was to be in Westminster Abbey when the new Marlowe memorial was unveiled. Circumstances intervened and the date of the unveiling was changed so that we actually missed it by a week. But our tour of Westminster Abbey was spectacular nonetheless.

The weight of British History hangs heavily on every square inch of the place. Every Monarch since 1066, William the Conqueror, has been crowned here. The contributions of all her great citizens are acknowledged and memorialized here. Many of them are buried here. Like the great Queen Elizabeth. And Mary, Queen of Scots, her rival. And that’s a very interesting juxtaposition, since it was the Anglican Queen Elizabeth who had the pretender to the throne and Catholic Mary executed in the Tower of London all those years ago. How did the Catholic pretender make into the Anglican Abbey? And placed with such perfect symmetry across the apse from Elizabeth herself signifying that she was an obvious equal of the great Queen. The only answer we could come up with was that Mary’s son and Elizabeth’s successor, James I of England, must have put her there.

This begins to suggest the kind of complexity of fact and distorted thinking and political intrigue that kept our Christopher Marlowe, the acknowledged “morning star” of the Elizabethan Age, from being recognized by his own Nation for four hundred years just because some scurrilous bastard called him an atheist. At any rate, it’s all really overwhelmingly impressive. And the more so now that they’ve included our favorite poet.

The Marlowe memorial window had been installed the day before we arrived and covered with a blue cloth in preparation for the unveiling the following week. One of the Dons of Westminster was kind enough to point it out to us, after Joey had the presence of mind to ask him about it. He even allowed her to take pictures. Now there are signs everywhere forbidding picture taking so she caused quite a stir, when with the Don by her side, she fired off a few flashes. The gasps and murmurs from the other tourists were audible from across the Church. But the Don looked at them with such smug assuredness that they didn’t dare whisper a complaint.

We both felt very satisfied and happy about the memorial. We believe that in some small way, we have helped rectify the injustice done to Marlowe and are now a part of the history and tradition of Westminster Abbey. That is just the most awesome and fulfilling feeling.

After our tour of Westminster, it was off to lunch at the Savoy Grille, where we had planned to meet with some Marlowe Society friends. Missed communications and last minute complications made their coming impossible and so it was just the two of us.

On a previous trip to London I had compiled a list of English cuisine restaurants that were, at least according to the published food reviews, really superior. The Savoy “River Room” was on that list, but for some reason we didn’t make it to the River Room that trip. We passed the River Room in the Hotel on our way to the Grille, however, and it looked swanky enough, but the Grille was the real thing: a London meeting place, a European version of “21.” All the more reason to try the Grille for lunch, I thought. And what a good decision that was.

For the first time I can remember, Joey and I ordered the exact same meal: a fresh Scottish salmon appetizer and Dover Soul: mine was grilled, hers was pan-fried. As simply as I can say it, this was the best restaurant experience we’ve ever had. The setting was exquisite. The service was simply the finest we’d ever seen. And the food was incredible perfection. It wasn’t the biggest check I’d ever signed but it certainly was the most satisfying. It was the perfect end to a perfect trip.

That night we had the feeling that there was nothing else to do, sort of like that commercial where the man sits stupefied in front of his computer as it says, “you’ve reached the end of the internet; there is nothing more to see.” So we sat in the Dukes bar and sipped more Guiness and tried to prolong the fun for a few more hours. The flight home the next day was full of the usual kinds of regrets over leaving and anticipation of the homecoming. It’s usually the drive up the Garden State Parkway that brings me firmly back to reality. But this time it’s different. This time the glow will last a long time.

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