While stationed in West Germany, my wife and I planned to visit all of Europe.
We began to fulfill that dream by visiting Paris over Labor Day weekend.
Now it was time to tour the United Kingdom in December.
In December of 1987 we drove to Nuremberg where we marveled at the largest Christkindlmarkt seen anywhere in the world. This traditional outdoor shopping market was usually in the town square. We could hardly walk between rows of shops, stalls, and kiosks. For every shop, there were three Essen kiosks, offering many German delicacies to eat, with plenty of good, cold, German beer, or nice, hot Gluhwein, to wash it down.
We sampled the Bratwurst, Germany's hot dog; the Frichedillen, Germany's hamburger; the Erbst Zuppe mit Brat, pea soup with sausage; and the Kartoffel-Pfannkuchen mit Apfel-Soße, potato pancakes with apple sauce. The Schmaltz Brot, bread covered with a thick layer of fat was not my wife's favorite. Our finest purchase was made that evening, a Nuremberg Angel for the top of our own Weihnachten Bäum, Christmas Tree, also referred to as Tannenbäum. When we returned home, we completed preparations to visit the United Kingdom.
We entered London by way of Tower Bridge. We had left the Manheim staging area at midnight and drove helter-skelter through Belgium to board a night-time ferry across the English Channel to arrive in Dover early this morning. I cringed as I watched our bus travel on the left side of the road. We think the Brits drive on the wrong side of the road, while the Brits claim they drive on the right side, which is the left side.
The famed Tower of London was not a single tower as I had imagined, but was a walled-in fortress with several towers and dungeons. We were greeted by a Yeoman Warder, a Beefeater, a retired British soldier. He talked with a Cockney accent I could barely understand. I turned to my wife and said facetiously, “When I look at our guide, all I think of is a bottle of gin.”
The Beefeater conducted a great tour, including the Crown Jewels; recounted fabulous stories, of which I am not certain half were true; and introduced us to the ravens strutting in the courtyards. I looked furtively at my wife and asked warily, “Do you really believe, my love, that when the last raven leaves the Tower of London, the Tower will figuratively self-destruct?”
As in Paris, we did it all in London, including St. Paul's Cathedral, a Christopher Wren masterpiece, where we entered the Whispering Gallery, an acoustic playground, under a 365-foot dome. I faced a wall at one end of the Gallery and whispered. “Can you really hear me?”
My wife was facing the other end of the Gallery and she replied, “Loud and clear.” I heard her without turning.
We spent a day at Windsor Castle, where we took in The Royalty and Empire, Madame Tussaud's fascinating exhibition recreating the magnificence of Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee celebration of 1897. The Windsor and Eton Central Station was the original site to which her guests were brought by royal train from London.
Back in London, we toured Westminster Abbey, across the street from the Palace of Windsor on the banks of the Thames River. The Palace contained the Houses of Parliament, and featured the largest square tower in the world, and the more famous clock tower, Big Ben. When Big Ben struck the hour, I glanced at my watch and said jokingly, “Big Ben is three minutes slow.” Cater corner from the Palace stood Westminster Abbey, where every English monarch, except two, were crowned since William the Conqueror in 1066, longer than nine hundred and twenty years ago.
We joined thousands, Brits and tourists alike, jammed against the outer wrought-iron fence at Buckingham Palace to observe the changing of the guard. We tried, in vain, to get one of the guards, resplendent in his red coat and huge, black, beaver shako, to smile. So I just took a picture of my wife being dwarfed as she stood beside him. We drove by Downing Street. The Bobbies would not let us anywhere near #10. But we peeked at the Horse Guards, magnificent in their red-and-black uniforms and feathered helmets, sitting intensely still with saber drawn in front of Whitehall.
While in London, we ate the typical Big English breakfast, with enormous sausages, fried eggs, baked beans, fried potatoes, kippers, and huge breakfast rolls. But we skipped Tea at the Ritz because I would not spring for nine and a half pounds, $16.00, to gorge ourselves on cucumber sandwiches, scones, and strawberry tarts. And I would not substitute the Brit's tea for their beer, not with London's famous pubs at hand.
We did a pub crawl one evening, eating pub food, and drinking pub beer and ale. My wife wagged an index finger at me as she said grimly, “There are more than seventy thousand pubs in the UK. Are you trying to drink a pint in each one?” She poured me into bed that night
We went to Beefeater's for a medieval, five-course banquet, with unlimited wine and ale. Henry VIII was, of course, present to pose for pictures. And we shouted ourselves hoarse when the jousting began.
During free time, we dashed through Harrods, cruised through Piccadilly Circus, and shopped on Oxford, Regent, and Bond Streets. On the last street, we spotted a window sign that read, “English spoken here. American understood.”
We wandered through Madam Tussaud's Wax Museum on Marylebone Road. My wife winced in the Chamber of Horrors and her jaw dropped upon learning that Marie Gresholtz Tussaud, while imprisoned in Paris during the Reign of Terror, modeled heads of famous persons using heads from decapitated bodies to make death masks.
Early one morning we ventured out to Portobello Road and Petticoat Lane for shopping in the street. Then we walked to Covent Garden and the Jubilee market. We wended through Camden Passage, ending at Camden Head pub to slake our thirst.
Contrary to public opinion, London Bridge is not now, nor was it ever, falling down. In 1968, it was dismantled and moved to Lake Havasu in Arizona. If your children wish to see London Bridge falling down, you'll have to take them to Arizona.
We acquired tickets to Theater, not to newly opened Les Miserables or Starlight Express, but to Phantom of the Opera. I was happy that our seats were not under the chandelier.
