As you know, I’ve recently returned from a holiday across the pond. On this, my first major trip outside of the country, my husband and I visited England and France with the majority of our time spent in London and Paris. For me, this trip was a dream that has been a long time coming – to see the places I’ve read and studied about for so long. Knowing me, you would not be surprised to find that the motivations for many of my visitations on this trip were brought about by literary connections, but we also made sure to enjoy the classic tourist traps and to try to soak in as much of the cities’ ambiance as possible.

Before any of these things could be experienced or enjoyed, however, a major hurdle had to be faced. Perhaps the main reason as to why I had not previously taken the journey across Atlantic, flying has become nothing short of torture for me. Most people I know claim to suffer discomfort while flying, but over the years my dislike of flying has turned into a full-blown terror. In the end, having decided that I would have to put fears aside if I wanted to ever get anywhere, I put this trip together considering the flying to be a necessary evil. Still, this didn’t give me any comfort in the weeks (and even months) preceding the trip. As the day of our journey loomed in sight, I suffered several panic attacks – I actually broke down two days before, hyper-ventilating and crying. What is it about flying that gets to me? It’s hard to explain. My all encompassing thought is usually how wrong flying is – how we’re not supposed to hurtle through the air in nothing more than an elongated tin can. Also, I have trouble putting my life in the hands of god-knows-who. Every dip or bump or turn makes me think about how it would feel to just fall out of the air. My stomach is a constant knot of panic, and my hands cannot be pried loose from the armrest or my husband’s arm. If the plane were to spontaneously explode, I would have no issues at all. But what if the power or the engine failed? To know for all that time what you’re hurtling toward? No good at all.

In preparation for my flights (Pittsburgh to Chicago, Chicago to London), I procured some Xanax. To my dismay, the Xanax didn’t really seem to do anything, but luckily because we were on the red eye and because I had been up for days consumed with anxiety and party planning, I fell asleep (albeit in an extremely cramped and uncomfortable position) for the majority of the, I’ll admit it, pretty smooth flight. I did cry one or two times, but as a whole, I managed to hold it together quite well.

In London, we stayed at the Apex City Hotel right next to the Tower of London. We had pre-arranged transportation from the airport (expensive, but oh so convenient and worthwhile), so in the car we could soak up the city with no fear of being lost. We also had the obligatory World Cup chat with the driver (the poor Brits were in mourning). Arriving at our very modern and somewhat posh hotel, I quickly unpacked our clothing, and we headed directly out to the Tower. Thus began our non-stop journey. Over the course of four and a half days, we visited the Tower of London (a fun place with tons of history – and the crown jewels), the National Gallery/the Tate Modern (great art), Buckingham and Kensington Palace (didn’t go in either, but the outside was impressive), West Minster Abbey (so pretty – one of the best stops on the trip; Poet’s Corner – yeah), the British Museum (so many stolen treasures), the Globe Theater (where we were treated to part of a rehearsal of Henry IV, part II), and the British Library (a quiet gem of a stop – a reader’s dream; Chaucer, Beowulf, Shakespeare, etc. plus, original hand-written Beatles lyrics that I could have stared at forever). We also saw the sights, like Tower Bridge, the Millennium Wheel (the London Eye), Big Ben/Parliament, and many others. We spent one morning at Windsor Palace (a worthy side trip), and I visited Abbey Road (a dream come true).

So, what is London like? Well, it’s sort of like here in some ways – at least I thought so. The city itself is an odd mixture of old and new. It is clean and vibrant, and the energy of the people there reminds me of home. In the day, people are focused on work – things move quickly and efficiently. In the evening, people are out and about. The pubs and the streets are filled with people hanging out. Generally, everyone was really fun, nice, and polite to us in London. People were laid back and honest with their opinions. You felt like you could walk up to a group of people at a pub and be welcomed into the conversation easily – tourist or not. Unlike Paris, which would take us a few days to get used to, we were almost immediately comfortable and relaxed in London. In all, the city was gorgeous, and despite the fact that there were a billion tourists everywhere, things were never too “touristy.”

The two things that people seem to want to know about are transportation and food/drink. Our main mode of transportation around the city was our feet. We walked and we walked and we walked.   We walked until our feet felt like nothing more than bloody stumps, and then we walked for more. We also rode the Underground – a feat that was marvelously simple after you figured it out. Admittedly, we did take a wrong train once in our first attempt to get to a site, but after that one blunder, we were all good. The same cannot be said about our accuracy on foot. It is marvelously easy to get lost in a city, and an old city like London (and ever more so in Paris) is filled with streets and crossings that tangle every which way. A good map is a must. And let me tell you this now if you plan on traveling abroad for the first time: do not be embarrassed to admit you are lost. Stop where you are and take out that map until you know what’s up. There are four hundred other people on that same street doing the same thing. The few times when we insisted we could figure it out on our own… well, we walked a lot more than necessary at times.

As for the food, Parry participated in many traditional dishes, eating sausages and fish and chips. My food mission was simple. At home, my favorite meal is my mother’s shepherd’s pie. Hers is made with corn, onion, hamburger, and mashed potatoes (I’ve seen hers with peas, as well). I was hopeful that I would find an authentic version, and I did. Traditionally, shepherd’s pie is made with lamb, and in a small pub in Windsor, I had a dish that could rival my mother’s (sorry mom). Man, was that delicious! I accompanied it with a bit of Guinness, and I felt that my UK experience was truly solidified. We had beer everywhere we went – for me, this is a big deal. Parry was in heaven.

Lastly, I want to tell you about my favorite part of the trip. We took a day to travel – by train – to Stratford-upon-Avon, a small town two hours outside of London. This is the birthplace of Shakespeare. He also spent a great deal of his later life living and writing here. The little house where Shakespeare was born is still standing (his “mansion” sadly was destroyed). The small town is straight out of the past. The houses are all old and beautiful. The restored ones are filled with furniture from the 16th/17th century. Touring these old houses and seeing how people lived was so amazing, but the best part of the trip (aside from the best tomato soup I’ve ever eaten and a beer at the famous Black Swan pub, AKA the Dirty Duck), was the Royal Shakespeare Company’s performance of King Lear – perhaps the main reason for the entire trip in my eyes (we chose the dates of our trip to correspond with the only matinee performance). For three and a half hours, I sat in the fairly simple theater, watching characters on a small stage with no real sets completely transfixed. For the scene where Lear goes out into the storm, a small platform big enough for two (a bare Lear and his helpless fool) arose from the stage, and in the single spotlight, as thunder and lightning crashed around them, rain fell from the roof on the mad king. It was gut wrenching and beautiful, and at the end as tragedy comes crashing down upon poor Lear, I couldn’t help but cry. It was perfect. (Also, oddly enough, I realized as I was watching the play that it was the first time I had seen a Shakespeare performance live where all the actors had British accents).

At the end of our time in England, we jumped on the Eurostar (perhaps the best mode of transportation I have ever taken: spacious, comfortable seats, a good meal, and great views) for the two hour journey through the Chunnel through the gorgeous French country-side to our little hotel in Paris. As this post is already quite long enough, I’m going to save the Paris parts for another day in the near future. To go through the entire trip in detail would be nearly impossible. Instead, I’m posting all of my pictures from the first part of the trip in my gallery now. Check out the slideshow for best viewing and read their descriptions for detailed information. Sadly, many places would not allow photography inside. The places that allowed pictures often would not allow flash, so the pictures are largely relegated to exteriors, but I think you’ll get the point. There are still over 400 pictures! Enjoy! London Pictures