God Save the Queen...and me.

I never would have imagined that spending time in London would be difficult--even more so than in Paris--for me. I mean, what's the worse that could happen, right? For chrissakes...I speak the language...

Well, as luck/God/karma would have it, my journey to the land of fish and chips, Big Ben, and Prince William (and his brother who is rapidly gaining on him in the looks department) started out on the right foot. I got to the train station on time, found my train with minimal searching (minimal meaning 20 minutes as opposed to an hour), and even made a few "train friends". The first new friend was a guy who approached me in the coffee line. "Where are you from?" he said to me. "China" I thought to myself while silently assessing his horrifically touristy outfit and admitting out loud that I was from Indiana. You sir, judging by your grubby tshirt with UConn logo displayed on it, must be from Connecticut. And in fact, he was. BINGO. He definitely fit the cliché american tourist bill...the one who tries to make the kind of friendly conversation with natives that is only acceptable in the blessed U.S. of A. I wandered off to join the queue while he was trying to make the african immigrant working in the café understand his little quip about wanting the beer keg one of the workers had in tow all to himself. So clever sir.

While waiting in line I almost punched a Brit. Let me explain. It was raining that day and there were announcements in the station about being careful. One of the annoucements warned that the quai was wet and to be extra cautious so as not to fall. Well this British guy behind me--stereotypical to the max--says, "Oh, must have been an American that fell". Excuse me sir? I had to reign in my patriotic desire (even I get those!) to stifle his terrible northen England accent. As a wise soul puppet once said, "America! Fuck yeah..."

So let's fastforward to London. I get there and head to the Underground station to go to my hotel. I have my little homemade itinerary with Metro directions and everything! I'm a big girl. I hop in the tube and wait for my stop. When the train stops at Green Park, however, the doors don't open. What do you know? There is a fire alarm going off in the station and the tube can't stop there. Unreal. So absurd that it has to be true. I get off at the next stop with my oversized suitcase--because I didn't have a normal sized one and I'd rather wheel around 30 pounds than not have 20 clothing options for each day...--and wander around looking for clues. I see a big tour bus with a map on the side and approach it, desperately searching for the route to Half Moon Street and my hotel. Not much help. Tired of looking around like a lost kid in Kroger, I start off in the direction where lots of people are walking.

Maybe not the best idea. I finally suck it up and walk up to to a lady waiting at the crosswalk to ask for directions. "Excuse me mam", I say, "do you live here in London? I'm looking for Grosvenor Place". As she turns around, I notice her eyes look a little..weird. A slow sinking feeling of horror invades my body. I HAVE JUST ASKED A BLIND WOMAN FOR DIRECTIONS. Oh my god, oh sweet Jesus. "Ergh, uhh, nevermind" I stutter, choking on my own mortification. I run down the street, my coat dragging in the mud.

After wandering for another twenty minutes and dropping my coat two additional times in a puddle I break down and go to buy a map. The only map shop in the vicinity, however, will not accept credit cards and I (of course) have not exchanged any money. I plead with the store owner--some guy with a heavy middle eastern accent talking on his cell phone--to give me directions to Piccadilly. He tells me to walk straight, cut in front of Buckingham Palace, and then make a left. Dragging my suitcase across the cobblestone and making an unbearable racket, I head towards Buckingham Palace. Now I'm not sure what I was thinking at that point in time, but Buckingham Palace is not exactly the best place to be dragging a three foot, 30 lb suitcase. There are tourists everywhere. I guess I was just determined. I set off across the big circle, at this point sweating like a pig, and discover that there are about 5 paths that lead to the left. All of them park paths. Which one is the correct one? And more importantly, I'm going to have to drag my suitcase through a frigging park? I find a park map and choose one of the paths; naturally it was the uphill one covered in huge wet leaves. Twenty minutes later I found my way onto Piccadilly, and eventually to my hotel...right across from the station I should have gotten off at.

The next day my grandparents arrived. Man was it nice to see familiar faces! They were visiting London as part of a guided trip put on by Elderhostel based around England's secret service agencies. Now I'm not sure how old you have to be to go on Elderhostel trips, but there were a few decrepit sons-a-bitches (as my dad would have said). My grandparents were by far the most youthful couple! Way too young for the group they were touring with. After they arrived, there was a scheduled tour of the area and I decided I would tag along to catch up with them. The group as a whole had an average speed of about 1.5 miles an hour...and that was a pretty brisk clip. I even mistook one of the guys in the group for being homeless and crazy. Harsh? Maybe. True? Definitely. I heard the doorman at the hotel snicker at me as I left with the group.

All in all London was good. We went to see Billy Elliott, I did a walking tour and met some cool kids my age, had a few great meals, etc... Like I said, it was so great to get to see family. I couldn't help noticing, however, that I was looking forward to being back in France. Not that I want to dread coming back or anything, it's just that it's becoming "home". At least for now. Getting back to Paris was a breeze and Caroline and the kids came to pick me up at the train station. Zoe and Eliott were thrilled (honestly!) to see me--which of course never fails to make me happy--and talked a mile a minute at the same time about their week. It always feels good to come home...even if it is the french version of home.