Thursday, June 20 & Friday, June 21: UK or Bust & Oxford by Death-Defying Driving
Sad goodbyes to Jay
Ready for Departure
Joey and I had spent (most) of Wednesday packing and getting ready, so the start of our trip was really signaled by dropping Jay off in the morning for camp, where he bravely marched off to join the rest of his 3/4 year old “Acorn” group at our neighborhood Montessori school, but circled back to give both Joey and me <one> extra squeeze for the road. Both of us were utterly defeated by this last gesture, but cheered each other up in the parking lot. Onward and upward! We had planes to catch and countries to see!
Sleeping on the way to the airport!
While Joey played outside, I charged devices, made last minute freezer meals for my Dad and Rick & Jay, and generally checked boxes off to-do and packing lists. Anticipating almost a full day of sitting, we then suited up Frida the dog to jog with me alongside Joey as she honed her newly acquired two-wheel-biking skills (no training wheels here!) for about 3 miles. After showers and freshening up, we (I) loaded the car and made the 40 minute drive to Dulles around 1pm, nevermind the standard backup on the outer loop. The 3 mile bike ride worked too well too fast; Joey fell asleep in the car en route, an early indicator that this child was made for long-haul travel. After progressing through a relatively easy check-in, baggage check, and security line, we boarded one of the terminal shuttles at Dulles and jetted off to meet Mimi, who had been dutifully waiting at Terminal C since a little after we left our house! Our flight was delayed by 15 minutes due to the incoming aircraft being late, so we went in search of a quick meal, fearing the dinner that awaited us airborne. We didn’t venture too far before settling on sandwiches and soup from Potbelly’s. Upon returning to the gate we found the delay pushed back a further 30 minutes, but boarding was otherwise routine and soon we were jetting across the North Atlantic.
Pre-flight sandwich fuel from Potbelly’s
No Sleep in the Mid-Atlantic
For the overnight flight, I paid a bit extra for Mom to sit in Economy Plus to take advantage of an extra half foot of leg room, and hopefully by extension more sleep. Alas, this upgrade proved futile - she was stuck between a toddler in the row in front (who, to be fair, Mom later reported as one of the best behaved toddlers ever) and a recurrent medical emergency (an older Russian man’s blood pressure was continually dropping) in the row directly behind. Joey and I shared a double seat about 4 rows back from Mom, and throughout the night I could see the lights and commotion come on and off around her. It seemed similar to trying to sleep in an emergency room -- uncomfortable waiting punctuated by brief flurries of activity and every now and then a baby pops up out of nowhere. We both agreed, though, that it could have been worse; it could have been her medical emergency after all. In a moment that would surprise no one, Joey was given a special kids’ meal for dinner (chicken fingers and potato wedges), and I got the standard meal (veggie pasta and salad), but we swapped because each suited the other’s tastes better. Yes, my children are less picky eaters than I am. No, I’m not sure how it happened (pretty sure Rick gets most of the credit). So Joey, full up on a well-balanced, made-for-adults dinner, got a respectable 5 hours of sleep, which was about 4 hours and 40 minutes more than either Mom or I got.
At least someone slept…
We also had a whopping 4 hour layover in Geneva (Joey, looking down at the Alps as we flew in: “Oh my gosh look at those people traveling up to their villages!” confirming Joey’s idea of Switzerland starts and ends with the image of idealistic snow globe villages and she’s probably not wrong). We spent our four hours in zombie-like states, except for Joey - fresh as a daisy - at the Horizon Lounge, which I was able to access for free through a credit card perk (#chasesapphirereserve I love you). The real perk to these lounges is the free snacks and drinks; you can fuel up on a hefty selection of snacks -- this lounge also had a simple hot buffet selections -- and relax in a much more comfortable space than the typical airport gate lounge. Mom was impressed with the very European-esque fresh fruit buffet bar as well. I have a fruit phobia and was not. (Yes that’s a real thing, no I’m not willing to talk about it.) It’s not a magical lounge though, so by the time we made our way to the gate for our London flight, we were really beginning to drag a bit. I believe at this point I sent Anne, who had arrived in London a couple hours earlier and was waiting for us in her own airport lounge, a desperate “I don’t think we’re going to make it” text so she was prepped for maximum damage control when we landed. The Swiss Air flight to London was easy, relaxed, and quick (just over an hour -- Joey slept the whole time again), so by the time we made it through Passport Control and collected our bags at customs in Heathrow, we had a breath of fresh air fueling our fumes. We were in England! Yay!
Hello, London
Hello, UK! Hello, Car Beast.
Anne was waiting for us at the arrivals gate, and we made our way over to the rental car shuttles. Though excited, we were still exhausted and it started to show. A relatively straightforward task -- taking an elevator down two floors to the shuttles -- was too complex and we ended up riding up and down the elevator twice before disembarking on the correct floor. No big deal -- seems like a perfect time to pick up a car where everything is reversed and navigate out of London traffic at rush hour 45 miles north to Oxford for the night. We picked up our car rental, a roomy sedan which was good for our group (“4 people, 8 bags” Anne dutifully noted as we loaded it up), but bad for navigating around narrow Old World streets, as we soon learned.
After a brief orientation to the car I quickly decided I hated this car, so I was set up well for a week full of optimism in challenging driving conditions. A non-exhaustive list of faults:
Fault #1 - it was one of those dreaded turn on/off by button not by key. Why do they make these cars? I have spent 30 years developing a system to combat my intrinsic absent-mindeness only for stupid car manufactures to decide to eliminate the major function of a car key and throw my entire system into whack. I need keys in the ignition. It’s a simple request.
Fault #2 - Too many automatic things. Windshield wipers, lights, locking doors, emergency brake. All were automatic. The least they could have done was gone whole hog and made this a self-driving car. I know when to turn on windshield wipers. Do I know how to make a right turn across three lanes of traffic in the UK? Less likely.
Fault #3 - The car also would also automatically turn off in neutral at stops and turn back on when the clutch was engaged. Normally this wouldn’t be so bad, but I was trying to get used to an entirely new perspective while driving, and I wasn’t sure if I had stalled. You know what I do when I stall? Turn the car back on WITH THE KEY IN THE IGNITION. This meant several times I was fumbling as lights turned green to understand whether the car was on or off while I frantically pushed the on/off button to tell me. It also meant I rode the clutch a lot to prevent it from turning off by itself. #sorrynotsorry
Fault #4 and the most egregious -- Constantly beeping if the car was within a foot of any barrier, which meant backing into parking spaces especially was a continual cacophony of BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP WHATAREYOUDOINGIDONTTRUSTYOU BEEEEP. Is this really a European car? Have the people who designed this car ever driven in narrow European streets? I think not. Curiously, this beeping did not apply to lateral approaches like curbs, which of course is where I actually could have used the help.
Carrying 4/8 bags; what a beast.
Nonetheless, Car from European Hell Procured, we passed our first test -- getting through the exit checkpoint of the car rental place without running over anything -- and were on our way to Oxford for the night, 45 miles Northwest of London, with a car full of adults who were approaching 30 hours sans sleep and a well-rested-probably-the-best-candidate-to-be-driving 6-year-old. Highway driving to Oxford went well enough, but Anne noted that I seemed to drift dangerously to the left, which would be my greatest challenge over the next week. My perspective was off in a way I didn’t anticipate. I was used to sitting in the left side of the car, and my mind kept correcting to put me back in that position in the driving lane. It was an automatic response I had to continually fight, even long after I had grown accustomed to the different lane changes and traffic patterns. Anne and I eventually came up with a code word for when lane drifting started to become a problem (saying “Caution”) but in this first 24 hours, she would alert me to the problem mostly by saying “watch on the left” or “getting a little too far to the left” and I, in my over-tired, ever-alet and anxious mind would respond “WHAT? I NEED TO GO LEFT? WHERE? NOW?” [turns even farther to the left]. As we headed into the very narrow, often two-way that should be one-way lanes of Oxford, littered with droves of pedestrians and bicyclists (as most college towns are, and this was the college town), this flaw would prove most dangerous and I hit several curbs and one side mirror (yay for collapsible side mirrors so no damage was done). Anne reported later that she was very grateful and surprised that we didn’t actually hit anyone. Something both Anne and I immediately noted: British drivers are exceedingly tolerant and polite. Throughout the trip, we were frequently saved by the patience of the drivers around us, a fact not lost on me as a frequent driver of the US 95 corridor (where patience is rare). Our lesson was learned though: maybe we were overly optimistic in our ability to drive this length after a full day of travel, but we made it. By the grace of God, we made it.
WE MADE IT
Oxford Arrival
Our Oxford Airbnb was a beautiful, chic row home in the Cowley Road district of Oxford, about a 10 minute walk from the city centre. Two bedrooms upstairs and a shotgun style layout on the ground floor with modern decor meant Joey, only six but already one for luxury, immediately fell in love. The garden in particular was beautiful, with as much square footage as the ground floor and beautiful blooms throughout the terrace that framed a stone patio. If you imagined a quintessential English garden, this would be it. 4 people, 8 bags unloaded and Mom quickly announced it was “jammie time” shortly after arrival at 5pm and headed upstairs to sleep.
Wandering the streets of Oxford for food
Anne, Joey and I bottled our fatigue and headed out for dinner after a promised playground stop for Joey, who had been up until this point a model child traveler and needed a bit of well deserved reprieve and a chance to stretch her legs. She spent about 15 minutes at the neighborhood playground before hunger prevailed and we left in search of dinner. Joey had it in her mind that she wanted the most American meal possible her first day in the UK: burger and fries with lots of ketchup, please. This somehow morphed into finding a restaurant called “Burger Town,” which didn’t seem to exist anywhere outside of Joey’s mind, so she took to wandering around the streets calling out “BURGER TOWN WHERE ARE YOU?” Hello Oxford, the Americans have arrived. While not Burger Town, Anne had identified a bar-restaurant with great reviews and a good menu (burgers included) not too far from us called The Library. When we arrived we discovered it was heavy on the bar, lite on the restaurant. Joey was not about the bar life, so we left and headed down the street to the Crowley Retreat, which was a more traditional pub-restaurant. We seated ourselves and waited for 10 minutes. It seemed fairly obvious that counter service was the norm, but we weren’t entirely sure and both Anne and I struggle with social anxiety that is only aggravated by hours of travel, fatigue, and hunger, so we did what any unreasonable person would do. When faced with the choice to politely ask someone how to get food or continue wandering aimlessly in an unknown city, we chose the latter. Despite our clear fatigue, though, Anne and I agreed that Oxford couldn’t be more charming. Full of row homes and neighborhood hangouts, the history and culture of so esteemed a place was evident, and we already regretted having just 24 hours to spend here. We walked for about 10 minutes to the Rusty Bicycle, which I had read to be great, but it was full to the brim and we didn’t want to hedge our bets on waiting. We wandered a bit more, swearing to each other and especially to Joey, who now didn’t care if it was Burger Town or Veggie Town, she wanted. food. now., that whatever restaurant we came across next we’d commit to.
Luckily for us, that restaurant was Magdalan Arms . Inside there was a charming wood-panelled bar with a side-door to a lovely terrace that spanned the length of the restaurant. Opting for al-fresco dining on the terrace, we settled at a picnic table and pored over a menu. The terrace was full of families and friends gathering for dinner and drinks to welcome in the weekend, and the light-hearted, happy mood helped our (and mine especially) increasingly travel-wearied spirit. This was clearly a neighborhood gathering spot, which made us optimistic for the dinner to come. Anne and I agreed that she’d take care of ordering dinner, and I’d take care of ordering the drinks to spread out our social unease about this is-it-table-service-or-is-it-counter-service dilemma? Turns out it is a combination - you order at the bar, and thereafter it’s table service. Joey, who has a serious hangriness proclivity, complained fiercely that she wanted to go to restaurants where we were shown to our table (#fancytothecore). We settled on the Spanish tapas plate for two and an order of the snail, bacon and duckfat crouton salad to share for Anne and me, and an order of the spaghetti beef ragu for Joey, whose favorite meal is spaghetti and meatballs. As I ordered our drinks at the bar (Anne the draft IPA and me a Guinness, of course), a German woman came to the bar and asked the bartender “Hello, excuse me. Could you help me understand how this works? We are a party of three looking for dinner. Should I order with you and then select our seats?”
How could it be that easy? I thought to myself.
Spanish Tapas Plate for 2
Dinner was delicious and ended up being one of the top meals we had throughout the trip, though the taste was no doubt amplified by our lack of decent meal in the preceding 48 hours. Anne raved about the IPA, and Guinness always seems to taste better in the UK, doesn’t it? We ate our fill and lingered over our drinks while Joey was treated to some homemade vanilla ice cream for dessert. On our walk back, Anne ducked into a kebab place to pick up some dinner for Mom and, now with appetites satiated, our tiredness was never more on display. (Joey, in her zombie state, tripped over a bicycle and then stumbled into bags of rubbish to catch herself, which is about as horrific as possible for someone so tidy and Type A as she.) As we headed back to the Airbnb, Anne and I made tenuous promises to each other to start the next day with a run through the City Centre, but I knew as I finally fell into bed around 9pm-- no bed ever felt more comfortable -- that the promise was wishful at best.
