WTF? People bike in this town?

I finally did it!  I biked to work.  It only took 6 months really.

It's been on my mind for ages.  I see people biking and it looks fun, healthy, active...all those things that make you think of happy people in commercials.  So I finally bought a bike.  And then it sat in my living room for a few weeks while I stared at it.  It became a drying rack for laundry.

Last Sunday, I decided that was it!  I must ride this thing!  I planned out the best biking route and hopped on the bike.  The biking route to work is a network of twists and turns overly complicating the 2 mile trip.  So much so, that I required a map just to navigate when to turn.  I had to stop frequently to check the map and make sure I was heading the right way.  After a nice cruise down the bus-free street where I live, I turned right onto some more traffic free streets.  All is fine, I thought.  This is fun!!  And then past Tavistock Square, the site of the bus bombing in 2005.  I looked for a memorial in the square center but didn't see anything.  I headed into SoHo where traffic was much busier.  But I made it!  Then I headed towards home, stopping at Regents Park to go around the park several times just to be able to ride fast and free.  I say fast, but everyone was passing me.  I'm still slow.  I noticed a guard with an automatic weapon.  That really seemed out of place in the park.  I found out a little later that it was in from of the house where Obama was staying.  Ohhhhh!  That 'splains it.  I didn't even know he was in town.  Then I hit the canals and was home.  Great!  That wasn't so bad.

Tuesday was a little different.  Sunday traffic and Tuesday 8:45am traffic are very different beasts.  I was so terrified, I just kept staring at the cyclists in front of me, missing my left turn.  I'm not even really sure where I was, but I just kept following the cyclists.  There was a small voice saying over and over, "What do I do?  What do I do?" And that voice was mine.  At one point, I was at the corner of Southampton Row and Holborn.  But I was on the northwest corner and I need to go east, that is I'm on the far left and I need to go right.  Not being able to figure how to do that easily, I just picked up the bike and became a pedestrian for a bit.  Once oriented in the right direction, I waited for traffic to pass, looking at my phone and then looking confused as if I was waiting for someone or something.  I do have my pride after all.  Can't let on that I have no idea what I'm doing.  Finally, it looked like a good moment to jump back into the fray.  I peddled on down Holborn, onto Shaftesbury and arrived at work.  And I was still shaking.

Home wasn't so bad, except for the giant hill just before home, but then...I was home!  And I just kept think, "WTF!  Why do people do that?  Drive a thing that is like a vehicle except with no front or sides or back on a busy street next to 2 story tall vehicles with very big fronts and sides and backs?"

I was thinking of riding in this morning until the security guard informed me that I need to be sure to get a sticker.  And that I should get in before 9:15 because there are only 30 spots for 150 bikes and you aren't allowed to lock your bike to anything.  Any bike that is not properly stored or is without a sticker gets towed.  If you miss getting a spot you have to take your bike outside and lock it to something else - like a rubbish bin or something.  So much for the Ride to Work Scheme.  But soon I'll move to a new building with lots of parking spots, so I won't have that excuse.  I'll just have to dig deep and find that courage to ride through Central London traffic!

Barbershop Quartet (minus one)

Barbershop Quartet (minus one), a photo by daradactyl on Flickr.

On the corner, there is a barbershop. I pass it everyday. And everyday except Sunday, these guys are there, cutting hair. We always wave and say, "Good morning!"

It's great to start the day with smiling faces.

Ghost Hunter

Here I am on the train again, this time to Chester.  What started as a beautiful sunny day in London is quickly turning into a cloudy, gray afternoon.  One thing I've noticed since the last train trip to Shrewsbury is that the sheep have been sheared.  They look much thinner.

But back to Shrewsbury.  It really was a lovely Easter weekend, punctuated by one interesting event.

The Ghost Hunter.

I spent the first day of my trip checking out the castle and taking lots of pictures.  And as it started to get a bit dark, I headed back toward the Inn at the center of the old town.  Shrewsbury is really old and many of it's buildings are half-timbered, leaning out over the cobble-stoned street.  Yes, like a fairy tale.  One plaque announces itself to be "Ye ancient house in which King Henry the Seventh loged (sic) when he went to Bosworth Field Aug 1485."

About 5 miles outside of town is the site of Wroxeter.  Now ruins of the Roman baths, it was once a thriving town of 5000, mostly Roman Soldiers and their families.  The Roman Baths were a curious place.  I remember from earlier visits to Bath and other ruins, the Roman Baths were a place of socializing.  Sort of like the modern day gym.  People would "take exercise"  (take it where?) in a long field called the "nave" which was lined with tall columns on either side and long "aisles" next to those.  This was all part of a basilica.  The resemblance to a catherdral both in site and name was not lost on me.  After exercise, the sweaty Romans would proceed into the tepid room and from there into the hot baths followed by a cold plunge.  The steam room and sauna were also available.  I wondered if they had towel service back in those days as well as a juice bar staffed by buxom local girls.

Shrewsbury Town Square

By the way - it is common courtesy when getting ready to board a train (like an elevator) to let the passangers off first.  People of Crewe, where I'm changing trains, clearly didn't get that memo.

OK, back to Shrewsbury.  So, as the day was winding down, I headed back to The Old Post Office where I was staying.  Not a Post Office at all but an old coach station dating back to 1530.  On my way, I stopped to take photos at the town square.  Another 16th Century building with an open ground floor and offices above.  As I was snapping away, a man approached and said, "They sold corn here."  I must have looked puzzeled as he repeated himself.  "It was an agricultural place and they sold corn.  See?  This is where they would count the bushels sold for the day."  He pointed to a series of holes drilled into the wall.  Apparently, a peg was moved around to determine how many sold vs how many left.  I fully took in the sight of my new tour guide.  With his bad combover, squinty eyes hiding behind large framed glasses and the khaki-tan Members Only jacket, he reminded me of Stanley Tucci's character in The Lovely Bones.  And that was disturbing.  But maybe that's just how he looked.  A group of teens walked by the plaza and I heard one of them yell, "stranger danger!"  Hmmm.  Not a coincidence.  And I'm not the only one who thinks he's creepy.  So Stanley (I never did get his name) told me about the court that used to be on the upper floor, with its infamous hangin' judge.  Executed 60 people in one day!  Stanley looked at his watch.  He was supposed to meet his friends for a ghost tour.  Ooooo!  I love ghost tours!  Oddly, Stanley didn't do the normal thing of offering an invitation, as you do or at least a polite reason why there isn't an invitation.  And besides, I thought, it was still broad daylight.  They never have tours in the daytime.  Odd.  So Stanley wandered back to the Square to wait on his friends.  I headed to the hotel to look up area ghost tours.  Couldn't find anything that runs outside of October.  So I wandered back to the Square but tried to stay a bit hidden.  I just wanted to see if there was in fact a group gathering for a tour.  Maybe I could crash.  But I didn't see any group, or any one for that matter.

By now, it was 8pm and time to get dinner.  It was the night before Easter, so it was a quiet evening in town.  I went back to the Old Post Office to get a pub meal.  After ordering a nice curry, I sat with my Guinness.  And lo and behold - there was Stanley.  He saw me, despite my best efforts to not make eye contact, and came over to sit.  He also had a Guinness and decided that made us best friends.  His friends never showed up for their ghost tour.  He went on to tell me how much he enjoys doing the ghost thing and that he has a friend that joins him on certain paranormal excursions such as spending the night in a haunted house.  Now, I love ghost stories.  Many of my friends love ghost stories.  But something about this guy was just ringing the alarm bells.  Maybe he is just socially inept?  Perhaps he's a computer nerd who doesn't know how to talk to people.  Or he's a serial killer looking for his next target.  Not wanting to be over-dramatic, but since I was traveling alone, I decided it was safer to assume the latter.

I kept the subjects to him and his ghosts, not wanting to reveal any details about myself or the fact that I was staying right above the room where we were.  And by the way - how in the world did he end up at the same pub I was in?  There were scores of open pubs in that area, and this one was a bit tucked away.  Creeepy.

He told me that he's seen the ghosts of the Two Princes in the Tower.  They were looking out the window.  He also said the most haunted place he's ever been is Clerkenwell Prison.  My heart skipped a beat.  Once again, without my ever telling him anything about me, he happened to name a place that is only a mile from where I live in London.  Creeeepy.

"They have EIGHT ghosts!  EIGHT!   I've seen them."  His eyes were wide.  He went on to list some other places that are really haunted.  I was just starting to get more info on the Tower, as it is one of my personal favorites, when my curry arrived.  I thought given the tenacity of this guy, I'd have a hard time getting rid of him.  But he suddenly sprang up and started apologizing profusely.  I suddenly wanted him to stay and finish his ghost stories while I ate.  Then I thought maybe it really is for the best, given his resemblance to an on-screen pedophile-serial killer.  Or actually any pedophile-serial killer.  They all have that look, you know?  It's the Members Only jacket.  Anyway I decided I could just as easily look up ghost stories on Wikipedia and I was better off without his looming over me as I ate.

A bit later, a girl walked in from outside where she'd just had a cigarette.  Her group, sitting next to me, seemed concerned.  "Who was that guy?"  "Oh, just some weird guy who does ghost tours," she replied.  Ah.  He pulls this with all the girls.

I felt a little better for some reason.  Although he was still keeping an eye on me from a distance.  Probably waiting for an opportunity to engage in another conversation.  When he seemed out of sight, I slipped up the stairs to my room.  Just in case, I pushed the chair under the doorknob.  And later, stacked a table on top of it.  It was an old pub - who knows the integrity of the locks?  I felt safe enough until I had to go to the bathroom.  It was down the hall which meant I had to unstack and re-stack every time.  My plan didn't take that into account. 

I never saw Stanley again.  Unless he comes back to visit he favorite haunted places in London..!

Dancing with an Oompa Loompa

Untitled, a photo by daradactyl on Flickr.

As it happened, it was another gorgeous weekend in London. Sunny, warm...perfect weather. I don't even remember the London of December with its snow and rain and freezing temps.

I was lucky enough to spend an ample amount of time with my dear Disney friends, Mohit, Dawn, Scott and Clay. They've been doing presentations for Tangled in Germany and here in London. So, the first night, we met up in Chinatown for dinner. As we approached Gerard St, we could hear music blasting from a stereo. And then we saw them. About 20 Oompa Loompas. And they were dancing. As they do. Everyone stopped and pulled out their cameras. I mean how often do you get to see Oompa Loompas - dancing no less!

One spotted me and made a bee line. The photo depicts his purposeful walking in my direction. These people always find me. Partly because I make eye contact and partly because I want to be found. Once a ham, always a ham. Although I must admit I wasn't quite prepared to dance.

And so I found myself in the middle of a circle of Oompa Loompas, dancing. And they were all taller. Geez - I can't even out-measure an Oompa Loompa! I did manage to get a photo mid-dance. Note the lip-bite of concentration, the hands poised, almost going for the batusie. And then the song was over and that was the end. Good thing as I was hungry.

Once inside, we got the usual table upstairs. I've been to this place several times and never sat on the first floor. I think you have to be family to do that. We asked the waitress to take our photo and she warned us there was a £5 charge. We politely declined and I tried to hide the camera, least she try to snatch it, take a photo and demand her fee. Stoned faced, she motioned for the camera and said, "No. It's free." Wow. She's good. She should play poker. We had no idea she was kidding. Awkward!

Around that time, I noticed the Dancers had left and we were now listening to the soothing sounds of a saxophone baring out Careless Whisper. Thinking back, I'm not sure if he played anything but the sax solo.

London is starting to top LA in random, odd happenings. Maybe this stuff just follows me. Either way, it makes me happy.

Royal Wedding: Aftermath

As the street cleaners make their way around the Palace, the port-o-potties are packed up, and the Royal Gardeners try to extract whatever is left of the completely flattened plants around Buckingham, English chins are wagging, recounting the highlights and horrors of the day.

I happened to have a hair appointment at 11am  in Hammersmith (or Hammersmif as you sometimes hear.)  The salon was abuzz with Wedding chit-chat, punctuated by hair-dryers and scissor snips.  My stylist, Sam, loved the ceremony and thought it was a magical day.  The septuagenarian next to me reminded us that the couple is on the older side for royal weddings.  While Charles was older, Diana and Elizabeth were both 20 when they wed.

Everyone was puzzled about Princess Beatrice's hat.  Antlers?  Unicorn?  Reindeer?  What was that?  She and her sister Eugenie in the blue and purple puffy dress looked more appropriate as backup singers for Lady Gaga or Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.  I mean, I'm certainly one for an outrageous hat, but that crossed the line even for me.  Ah well.  What is a Royal occasion without scandal?

After the salon, I made my way over Hammersmif Bridge and onto the Thames Path where I grabbed lunch at the Blue Anchor, a local pub since 1722.  Sitting outside, I could hear the Australians next to me discuss what was up with that kiss?  Either of them.  They felt they were short and lacking in passion.  They had higher expectations.  But perhaps it wasn't so much lack of passion as it was discomfort with PDA, with extra P.

On the tube, passengers scanned an assortment of papers, all with the kiss on the cover.  Back in Islington, I stopped at the newsstand to purchase one of the commemorative editions.  A lady came up and, clearly bored already, noted that everything was about the wedding.  She gave a disgusted tut-tut as I reached across her to get a copy of the Daily Mail.  She was too well dressed for an anarchist, so let's just assume she was simply bored.  As the reports from the electricity grid confirm, that put her in a small percentage of the population.  There was a power surge after the ceremony, 4th largest of all time, indicating that people stopped watching TV and did something else - like boil a kettle.  I know that sounds cliche, but it is actually a planned event here in England.  After a major TV event, such as an important football game, there are always power surges that indicate people are taking a tea break and it is also used in the metrics of how many people were actually watching.  Take that, Nielsen Ratings!