Up bright and early – too bright and too early – for our cab to the airport at 6:00 AM. In honour of the last time I was in London (approximately 25 years ago, holy fuck I'm old). We shared a cab to the airport with a man who was originally from London (although his destination was elsewhere), and whose wife was Italian. I decided to take this as an omen.
The security line fed in one steady stream through the cancerscanners. While we were waiting in line, the TSA's promotional video did their best to reassure us that these scanners were completely safe, even for children and pregnant women but the steady stream of static on the video and the fact that they were pretty much lying worked against them. (If these scanners are so safe, why are TSA agents expressly forbidden to wear dosimeters?) Needless to say, I opted out.
In Canada, when I came up as the random lucky winner of the enhanced scanning sweepstakes, the security staff offered me the choice of the body scan or the pat-down. Both were presented as equivalent choices with no particular shame accruing to either. Not so in the US. When I was waved through the machine, I said "I'd rather have the pat-down," which set off a chorus of "Female opt-out!" shouts from various staff members. It felt as if the intention was definitely to single me out – to point out loudly and clearly that here was someone who was not with the program, and to use herd psychology to get me to comply with the scanners. I had to wait a couple of minutes to get a female TSA agent, who gathered up my stuff from the conveyer belt and escorted me over to an area not too far away from the rest of the passengers. Once I explained that I was a rape survivor and had just recently had abdominal surgery, she was pretty great. She did everything in her power to take what was designed to be a humiliating process and make it as humane as she possibly could.
On the plane, we once again walked past some of the most comfortable-looking first class seating in modern air travel, to our seats, which weren't bad, but... damn. The chaise longues in first class! We were fed our choice of breakfast – omelette with mushroom or mixed grill. Being allergic to mushroom, I opted for the mixed grill, which came complete with... mushrooms!![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
st_darwin was kind enough to donate his fruit cup, so my breakfast consisted of three-quarters of a bagel in the airport terminal, a handful of pills and dietary supplements, a tentative spoonful of hashbrowns, two fruit cups, a yogurt, an orange juice, and the best damn cup of tea I've had since leaving the cruise ship. Near the end of the flight, they returned again with a snack – an orange lemon muffin that was somehow magically delicious. They followed that up with a cunning-looking single-serving ginger ale that purported to be both Schweppes and Canada Dry simultaneously. It tasted more like Schweppes.
Entertainment-wise, I watched episodes of 30 Rock and Parks and Recreation. The audio offerings were amazing – Kate Bush, Nick Cave, The Damned, pretty much every band to ever come out of Manchester – but the sound quality was atrocious. Everyone sounded as though they were at the bottom of a very deep, metal well. I soon gave up and Sam and I listened to Alan Moore's spoken word-to-music rants, as a warm-up for what London would be like.
Once in London, we spent entirely too much time in the immigration line before being stamped and sent on our way. Now we're ensconced in the Hotel Orlando, a small bed and breakfast type hotel set in a brownstone in Shepherd's Bush. Our room is cozy, to say the least – most likely a 10x10x10 cube. Just inside the entry door is a shower stall to the left, and a closet-style bathroom to the right. The rest of the room features a wardrobe, a desk, a wall-mounted television, a small dresser and a double bed. Around the way is a place that rents flats by the week – some of them furnished and quite reasonably priced for travelers. Something to think about for the future. Chard.co.uk or something like that, I think?
We got directions from the desk clerk to a local pub, but either he really sucks at giving direction, we suck at following direction, or the pub isn't where it was alleged to be. We gave up and ate instead at an Indian place that was open and looked good, Shimla Mirch it was called. We shared chicken tikka masala (the national dish of England, and one food crossed off the culinary to-do list), aloo Bombay, some truly delicious garlic naan, basmati rice, and for appetizers papadums with a variety of chutneys and sauces, including this really amazing sweet tamarind sauce. I am an unabashed fan of chicken tikka masala; I'm usually hard-pressed to order anything else at an Indian restaurant. This was some of the best chicken tikka masala I've ever had. It's amazing the way that food sometimes grounds you. Travel can be so unsettling to my psyche – I prefer being somewhere to the process of getting somewhere – so it's nice when I stumble across something that just roots me in a sense of centered homeyness. This meal, tonight, did that. It was perfect. And to make it even more perfect, I also had a giant Kingfisher – my first beer in over a month – and was full, happy and feeling no pain by the time we walked out of there.
I'm not quite ready to phase off the painkillers, but I can see there from here. I'll pop an Aleve before tomorrow's big day of Shakespearean theatre, but after that, I do believe that beer will be my drug of choice. But before we can get to that point, I must absolutely crash. With any luck and my circadian rhythms willing, I'll wake up tomorrow a morning person.
The security line fed in one steady stream through the cancerscanners. While we were waiting in line, the TSA's promotional video did their best to reassure us that these scanners were completely safe, even for children and pregnant women but the steady stream of static on the video and the fact that they were pretty much lying worked against them. (If these scanners are so safe, why are TSA agents expressly forbidden to wear dosimeters?) Needless to say, I opted out.
In Canada, when I came up as the random lucky winner of the enhanced scanning sweepstakes, the security staff offered me the choice of the body scan or the pat-down. Both were presented as equivalent choices with no particular shame accruing to either. Not so in the US. When I was waved through the machine, I said "I'd rather have the pat-down," which set off a chorus of "Female opt-out!" shouts from various staff members. It felt as if the intention was definitely to single me out – to point out loudly and clearly that here was someone who was not with the program, and to use herd psychology to get me to comply with the scanners. I had to wait a couple of minutes to get a female TSA agent, who gathered up my stuff from the conveyer belt and escorted me over to an area not too far away from the rest of the passengers. Once I explained that I was a rape survivor and had just recently had abdominal surgery, she was pretty great. She did everything in her power to take what was designed to be a humiliating process and make it as humane as she possibly could.
On the plane, we once again walked past some of the most comfortable-looking first class seating in modern air travel, to our seats, which weren't bad, but... damn. The chaise longues in first class! We were fed our choice of breakfast – omelette with mushroom or mixed grill. Being allergic to mushroom, I opted for the mixed grill, which came complete with... mushrooms!
st_darwin was kind enough to donate his fruit cup, so my breakfast consisted of three-quarters of a bagel in the airport terminal, a handful of pills and dietary supplements, a tentative spoonful of hashbrowns, two fruit cups, a yogurt, an orange juice, and the best damn cup of tea I've had since leaving the cruise ship. Near the end of the flight, they returned again with a snack – an orange lemon muffin that was somehow magically delicious. They followed that up with a cunning-looking single-serving ginger ale that purported to be both Schweppes and Canada Dry simultaneously. It tasted more like Schweppes. Entertainment-wise, I watched episodes of 30 Rock and Parks and Recreation. The audio offerings were amazing – Kate Bush, Nick Cave, The Damned, pretty much every band to ever come out of Manchester – but the sound quality was atrocious. Everyone sounded as though they were at the bottom of a very deep, metal well. I soon gave up and Sam and I listened to Alan Moore's spoken word-to-music rants, as a warm-up for what London would be like.
Once in London, we spent entirely too much time in the immigration line before being stamped and sent on our way. Now we're ensconced in the Hotel Orlando, a small bed and breakfast type hotel set in a brownstone in Shepherd's Bush. Our room is cozy, to say the least – most likely a 10x10x10 cube. Just inside the entry door is a shower stall to the left, and a closet-style bathroom to the right. The rest of the room features a wardrobe, a desk, a wall-mounted television, a small dresser and a double bed. Around the way is a place that rents flats by the week – some of them furnished and quite reasonably priced for travelers. Something to think about for the future. Chard.co.uk or something like that, I think?
We got directions from the desk clerk to a local pub, but either he really sucks at giving direction, we suck at following direction, or the pub isn't where it was alleged to be. We gave up and ate instead at an Indian place that was open and looked good, Shimla Mirch it was called. We shared chicken tikka masala (the national dish of England, and one food crossed off the culinary to-do list), aloo Bombay, some truly delicious garlic naan, basmati rice, and for appetizers papadums with a variety of chutneys and sauces, including this really amazing sweet tamarind sauce. I am an unabashed fan of chicken tikka masala; I'm usually hard-pressed to order anything else at an Indian restaurant. This was some of the best chicken tikka masala I've ever had. It's amazing the way that food sometimes grounds you. Travel can be so unsettling to my psyche – I prefer being somewhere to the process of getting somewhere – so it's nice when I stumble across something that just roots me in a sense of centered homeyness. This meal, tonight, did that. It was perfect. And to make it even more perfect, I also had a giant Kingfisher – my first beer in over a month – and was full, happy and feeling no pain by the time we walked out of there.
I'm not quite ready to phase off the painkillers, but I can see there from here. I'll pop an Aleve before tomorrow's big day of Shakespearean theatre, but after that, I do believe that beer will be my drug of choice. But before we can get to that point, I must absolutely crash. With any luck and my circadian rhythms willing, I'll wake up tomorrow a morning person.
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