Tag Archives: London

Meet Oliver Twist

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Editor’s Note: Lightning in a Jar will return. In the meantime, you can catch up on the installment series by visiting the High School Years page.
This week, Henry, my Cavalier King Charles who descends from royalty, has written a post about our new arrival.
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Oliver Twist is so much healthier now, which is good news for Henry. Or maybe not.

Cook says I’ve been remiss in not revealing something of significance, but if truth be known, I saw no point. After all, why stir up news of a troubling nature?

Yet, Cook says it’s not troubling at all. It’s wonderful news, she adds, a tad too happily.

Ahem. I beg to differ.

It seems we have a new addition to our household. A Maltipoo, of all things. Of course, as a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who is the only descendant of royalty (and of sound mind) residing in this abode, I ought to have had the power to veto bringing in a new soul, even if the soul in question is an orphan, rescued from the ravaged streets of our fair city.

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When Oliver Twist arrived, he was underfed and ridden with Sarcoptic mange and roundworms.

But alas, Cook seems to have forgotten that little fact of my lineage, and left me unceremoniously out of the loop the day she decided to take the imp into our home. Make that, my home.

Naturally, I would be delighted with the arrival of said dog had Cook brought him here to serve as my footman. One can never have enough, you know, particularly when one has none at all. Thus, that would have made sense, especially when you consider the rascal is always underfoot.

But, there you have it. That is our, ahem, splendid news. Oh, did I say splendid? I meant disastrous.

Oliver Twist is the name he bears. Cook says it’s an homage to a hooligan from a Charles Dickens novel.  I wonder if that other Oliver would have given me a case of mites. I’ll never know.

Young Oliver Twist arrived to our familial tableau weighing a mere 1.75 pounds, about the same amount as one of my meals. Hmm. Not that I’m getting any ideas, mind you.

Cook says a man of questionable circumstances, no doubt, with a nefarious look in his eye, was selling the ragamuffin on the streets–practically in the gutter. Feeling bad for the scamp, she took him in, only to discover Oliver, at four weeks (not eight weeks old, as she’d been told), was undernourished and laden with a slew of ailments. One of which was passed on to me. Bloody mites.

Thus, Cook was duped and royal that I am, I had no choice but to suffer in silence as I took the medicinal cure that awaited me.

Feeding time!

Feeding time!

And now, it’s been nearly four weeks since his arrival, and–blasted!–he now seems to be thriving. Nothing like a little R&R I’ve always said, which is something I myself strive for every hour of every day.

The rapscallion is slowly gaining weight, and getting perkier by the day. Confound it. I despise perky. He’s rather a bit of a bloody nuisance, too, and insists on playing with my handsome, feathery tail, and on pulling at my leash.

Oh, the things a royal must bear. Noblesse oblige, I suppose.

Not a word to Cook, but first chance I get, I’m teaching young Oliver how to be my footman. That is, once I figure out precisely what it is a footman does. There’s still hope for him yet.

Incidentally, speaking of Cook, she has added two videos here of the boisterous lad, so that you can see what a bother he can be. Frankly, I don’t understand what Cook sees in the little fellow. Perhaps you can tell me?

The Iceman Cometh–Not

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I’ve been to Europe twice, and each time I couldn’t help but notice one thing. Just one itty-bitty thing that almost isn’t worth mentioning.

Except, that it is.

You could say it’s the one thing that separates the wheat from the chaff. The ones who teach from the ones who just do.

Okay, maybe I’m not making any sense, but then this little thing has got me all riled up, my underwear in knots, and my head in a raving tizzy. Here’s what I’m talking about:

It strikes me that no one consumes ice as well as we, ahem, Americans. We love our drinks with ice, preferably in a cup brimming with the shiny cubes of frozen water. So tantalizing! So delightful!

So much ice, that only a splash of the liquid du jour need be added. Why, if you ask me, there’s nothing more refreshing on a warm, balmy day, than an ice-cold beverage. Did I mention that one of the key elements of such a drink is the ice?

Indeed, why else would Coca Cola, or Pepsi, for that matter, advertise their products in glasses filled with glistening, sparkling ice cubes in tall glasses that are beaded with droplets of moisture, thanks to all that ice?

Why? Because it’s supposed to be served cold! That’s why! In fact, I’ve never heard these cola companies pushing their product as one that is best “Served Luke Warm.” Have you?

Ice cold, is more like it, something that can only be achieved with, dare I say it? Plenty of ice.  In other words, no skimping, please!

Yet, somewhere between the American coastline and the continent of Europe, a change happens. One that throws all ice out the window and doesn’t give it a second thought. In that part of the world, serving a drink slightly chilled—with no ice at all—is perfectly acceptable. It’s downright normal!

I was reminded of the difference between our cultures when I boarded my first flight. Destination: London. I asked for sparkling water, as opposed to, still (flat or mineral) water, which is another term I had to learn). The flight attendant served it to me with nary a trace of ice. Zippo. Zilch. Nada.

I then asked for ice. This is what I got:

Where’s my ice??

Can you see it? No? Well, trust me. It’s there. One solitary, ice cube. Floating by its lonesome in a vast sea of sparkling water. Somehow, outside the US, this is deemed sufficient. One cube, which, by itself, with no little cube-ette friends to help keep it cold, is sure to melt by the time I finish writing this sentence. Yep. It’s gone.

This ice-slight cuts to the very heart of what Americans are all about. In our “land of plenty,” we are drinkers, who love our cold drinks served with ice. The more, the merrier! Many of us live in areas that in the summer are either stinking hot and humid, or miserably hot and arid. Take your pick!  So, bottom line is we have to have our ice. Pile it on, please! Now, here are a couple of drinks after my own heart:

If you ask me, ice makes any drink refreshing.

Yes, ice means the world to me, and nothing less than 9-12 ice cubes will do. In fact, it’s a tall order to expect one ice cube to keep an entire drink cold for more than a minute.

Ice is in our DNA. Overall, the United States is a nation of ice enthusiasts! Which is why, it’s a sad state of affairs when an American abroad must drink a tepid, ice cube-less beverage.  Everywhere I went, no matter how casual or formal the dining, it was the same: drinks served without ice. Once, in Salzburg, a waiter, when asked, did bring me a small cup filled with ice. I was delirious with joy. But, overall, my drinks looked like this:

Who took my ice?

Note to self: must find way to bring my own stash of ice when traveling abroad. I wonder if they make a portable, battery-powered ice-makers? Anyone?

So, how do you like your beverages served? Are you a “with” or “without” imbiber?

SIDE NOTE:  In other news, this week marks the beginning of my third year of blogging.  Yay!! Frankly, I wouldn’t have even noticed this, if not for my blogger pal, Jayne, who recently posted in her status update that she is celebrating her third anniversary of blogging.

Congratulations, Jayne, and thanks for inadvertently reminding this cobweb-addled brain of its own milestone. Turns out, I’m exactly one year behind you, but with any luck and pluck, I’ll be gaining in on you in no time! 😉

Four Cities, Three Gals, Two Weeks

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Four cities, 14 days. Three gals on a journey of a lifetime.

Did I have what it takes to make the most of it all? Was I ready for the time of my life? And, when all was said and done, did any of the cities we visited become my favorite?

If you ask me, Henry was on to me and my imminent departure. I think he had an allergy flareup as a way to get me to stay. The fiend!

Yes, yes. and heck, yes!

Being an honorary Girl Scout, I was ready. My ducks were all in a row. Indeed, having started planning this trip months in advance, I prepared and trained for this European vacation with the utmost precision, one befitting well, um, Captain Von Trapp, whistle and all. I kept countless lists of all I would need to do prior to departure. Passport? Copy of passport? Check and check!

I was determined that nothing would go wrong. I paid all my bills in advance. I arranged for a friend to water the plants in my patio. I even made a trip to my local Target store to purchase the necessary toiletries, making sure all were under three ounces.

Not wanting to leave any stone unturned, I asked a number of friends for advice on traveling abroad. (Thanks, Ashley, Trisha, Christine, Bella, Susan and Clare!)

I left a copy of my itinerary with my son (who never even looked at it!), along with thorough instructions on the care and keeping of Henry. I also contacted Henry’s vet to let his office know, that in the event of any unforeseen mishap, my son would have the authority to make all decisions on Henry’s behalf. I then gave them my credit card number, in case of emergency expenses.

My daughter (seen here at Park Güell) was climbing the walls, having already spent six weeks in Barcelona by the time I arrived. Just kidding. She loved it there!

I also made sure my trust was in order, and then proceeded to get all weepy as I told my son where I keep all the important documents, in the event of, well, anything. Of course, I reminded him of my desire to be cremated, in the event that my plane didn’t make it across the pond. After all, I found it unfathomable that a plane could make a ten-hour journey without stopping for gasoline! My son, the compassionate soul that he is, just stared blankly at me and shrugged.

Then, I did what every traveler does prior to departure. I packed, keeping in mind what my daughter, who was already in a Barcelona study abroad program, advised. Pack lightly! A daunting task, if you ask me, given I am fond of having all the comforts of home wherever I go.

To save space in my suitcase, my friend, Susan, said she’d heard that some people pack just two pairs of underwear and alternate. At first, I wondered, exactly how much space does underwear take, that I should only pack two? I assumed what she’d heard, but didn’t mention, was to pack two pairs and wear the other 12 on the plane. Not the most comfortable way to travel, mind you, but I was up for the challenge.

When the day came to board the plane, I was ready. Which is when Henry had an unexpected bout with allergies (clearly, he was allergic to my impending departure), and I had to make the decision whether to take him to the vet and hope they’d see him without an appointment (he’s Henry, after all!), which could have the potential of leaving me with barely enough time to go through security and board the plane. Or, I could leave it to my son to handle once he dropped me off at the airport. I chose the latter.

Six days later (well, actually, 24 hours later but it sure felt like six days!), I arrived at my first destination: the London Heathrow Airport, which was all abuzz with Olympic fever, and where I spent every minute of a two-hour layover maneuvering my way through the maze, the crowds, the security, etc, in order to get from one gate to the next.

The view from atop Park Güell, one of Gaudi’s finest achievements.

And, before you could say, “Bob’s your uncle,” I was headed to Barcelona–exhausted and damp with perspiration–to meet my daughter and a friend she had met through her study abroad program, who would be traveling with us.

Together, the three of us would leave Barcelona and traipse across Europe. And, by Europe, I mean Vienna, Salzburg and Prague, all cities rich with history and chocolate. Yes, the world was our oyster–and we had lots of ground to cover!

But first, there was the matter of ice.

Turns out, I love ice. Have a thing for it, really. But, ice could be the very thing that separates Americans from the Europeans. The line in the sand, if you will. And, the lack of it had the potential to cause an international incident.

For, like Dorothy Gale in The Wizard of Oz, it suddenly dawned on me that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. And, by Kansas I mean, the USA. But, I’ll tell you about it in my next post.

Did all my planning guarantee nothing would go wrong? And, what was my favorite city?

Well, all will soon be revealed.
In the meantime, tell me. How do you prepare for a long trip?

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Euro Traveller Extraordinaire

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Guess who’s back?

It’s me!

Actually, I’m writing this as I make the last leg of my trip, and I’m heading home! After all, after weeks of traveling, home is where the heart is. Home is where I hang my hat.

This is a chocolate waffle concoction, served with gelato, from a little shop in Barcelona.

And, as it turns out, I’m a Euro Traveller! At least, that’s what British Airways called me as I  traveled within the European continent. By that, I assumed they meant that I carried lots of Euros with me. Which, technically, I did not!

Though, I did start out with plenty of euros at the beginning of my journey, but all those pretty postcards, and bookmarks did add up and I just had to have that adorable little mosaic-sculpted owl from Barcelona (so reminiscent of Gaudi, after all). That owl is sure to look perfect in my ever-growing owl collection.

A slice of Sacher Torte from the Sacher Hotel in Vienna, where the dessert was invented.

Then, there were the pair of Italian shoes, a genuine leather purse for my daughter, a couple of tote bags with the names of the cities we were visiting emblazoned on them, a picture book of the Palau de la Musica Catalana in Barcelona–the most visually stunning architectural achievement ever created, if you ask me. Not to mention all the meals–croissants, meats, seafood, bottles of “still” water, Sacher tortes—along with public transportation fees, water closet fees, and one delightfully bouncing wooden bumble bee on a spring coil, which I couldn’t resist, and refuse to discuss further.

And, of course there were the chocolates. Ah, chocolate!

As English comedienne Jo Brand once said, “Anything is good if it’s made of chocolate.”

And, she should know. She’s from the continent that specializes in all things chocolate. If you ask me, if there’s one thing Europeans know how to make, it’s chocolate. In America, we eat chocolate that can’t hold a candle to its European counterpart. Much of ours seems to be a blander version of their chocolate, and, frankly, I wonder if you can legally call what the big candy companies in the states sell here, chocolate, particularly when it has so many other ingredients, such as emulsifiers, artificial flavors and the like.

Even the European version of the popular American candy, Kit Kat, tastes better. Tres chocolatey, if you ask me. Those Europeans take their chocolate seriously and accept no substitutions in their ingredients.

Which is why our suitcases were stocked with chocolate to last us the coming year. Chocolate bars,

From a chocolate shop in Salzburg.

biscuits, fudge, truffles, cookies, bark, wafers, you name it. Dark, bitter, semisweet, milk, fondant, and even my least favorite, white. All the colors of the chocolate rainbow. And when it comes to chocolate with nuts, the nut of choice, hands down, is hazelnut.

Plus, chocolate makes great gifts for all my chocoholic friends. (There’s one with your name on it, Trisha!)

We procured so many chocolates while in Prague that it earned us two free passes to the Chocolate Museum, which was headed by a snappy Czech, looking rather Willy Wonkish in his big chef hat and white apron, and red ascot.

Which is why I don’t have any euros left, or, for that matter, korunas (which is the currency used in the Czech Republic), except for a few coins. I still have my American money, but, turns out, they’re useless in these parts, and not worth as much as the euro. I also have one pound, a leftover of my trip to London seven years ago, which I brought with me because I knew I’d have a stopover in London and perhaps have time to get a Summer Olympic souvenir.

In Prague, this Belgian waffle on a stick is served with either dark, milk or white chocolate.

So, British Airways may call me a Euro Traveller, but, as it turns out, all they really mean is that I’m traveling within the European continent, which I did twice. First, when I boarded a plane from London to Barcelona, and then another from Prague to London. Soon I’ll be boarding my flight back to the states. And, according to British Airways, that makes me a “World Traveller!”

I can’t wait to be officially back and regale you with stories of my adventures abroad, including my bizarro, Fawlty Towers experience, and my never-ending search for ice.

But let me unpack, and gather my bearings. Let’s hope jet lag doesn’t overtake me. Think of me as one of those astronauts who’s been away from the planet for an extended period and now must remain in a holding pattern before resuming life as I once knew it: Blogging away!

And while I’m busy, ahem, with these other matters, and sorting through the over 1,200 photos I took, I will resume reading your blogs and playing catch up wherever possible, and hoping you’ll forgive me if I miss a few.

All I need now is someone to pass me a shovel so I can unload all the chocolate from the suitcases. And, while I’m doing this, please take a moment to let me know what you’ve been up to, and please leave a link to any of your favorite posts that I may have missed while I was away.

The Cavalier King Writes Again

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Dear Diary,

I’m on tenterhooks, awaiting news of the Queen’s Jubilee. Each morning, when Cook leaves for the day, I switch the channel on the telly to the BBC, in hopes that I will learn more about preparations for the festivities. I pray I soon secure my passage to Britain, so that I, too, may partake in the most anticipated event of the century!

In the meantime, my birthday milestone is quickly approaching and I have not as yet heard what is planned for me. My own Jubilee, perhaps, replete with fireworks and a basket of tennis balls, procured for my enjoyment? A new cashmere bed? Or, a platter of delicious morsels to indulge my palette? Or maybe, Cook has finally commissioned my portrait to be done, with the expectation that someday it will hang at Buckingham Palace. What a fetching swath I will cut when my likeness adorns the palace walls!

To be certain, I can only assume that, as I am turning five, Cook and Valet have something keen in store. No doubt a surprise, in which the who’s who of London will be on the A List, including the Queen herself! But please, don’t let the Kardashians or the Salahis crash my soiree! Most unbecoming!

In order to prepare for my portrait sitting, I am determined to get into shape. Which means, as of today—no, make that as of tomorrow—I will increase the number of my daily constitutionals by four. Generally, there are three types of constitutionals I enjoy: The ones in which I’m escorted by Cook, the mid-day strolls with Nanny, and the rather frolicking ones in which my valet accompanies me.

Of course, the first line of duty, when I begin my walk, is to allow my fellow canine brethren, to greet me by permitting them to sniff my, ahem, never mind. No need to go into all that. Suffice it to say, it’s an obligation that comes with the royal throne. I am a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, after all. Noblesse oblige, I say.

Each morning, Cook takes me on my first walk of the day. ‘Tis a brisk one and quite exasperating, actually, because it is my desire to stop and smell the flowers, the trees, the fire hydrants and the lamp poles, but Cook is soon annoyed by my lackadaisical demeanor, as she is often in a rush to leave for the day, continuously mumbling under her breath something about wanting to “beat the traffic.” Whatever that means.

Cook rarely allows me to romp in the grass as the carefree lad that I am. She’s concerned about my knees. A few years ago, I had to have surgery for a luxating patella—a slipped kneecap—and the royal vet recommended I rest my knee. I believe he meant during the recovery phase, but Cook took it to mean, for the rest of my life. As I plan to live forever, that would indeed be a long respite.

The walks with my valet are much more to my liking. He allows me to take the reigns while I pull him full throttle, leading us willy-nilly into the bushes, circling around trees, and changing paths as I see fit. Luckily, I have convinced him that my knees are fine and have told him that if I am to get any exercise at all, he must always bring along a tennis ball. Happily, he is an obedient servant.

I just adore fetch, and the heart wants, what the heart wants. There’s nothing more capital than a good game. Of course, I only run in order to catch the ball. It is beneath me to bring the ball back to my valet. If he wants it that much, he must come to me to retrieve it. Indeed, all dogs should know, that this is far more fair than making us do all the work.  After all, we are not heathens. We are dogs, hear us roar!

Lastly, Nanny takes me on my mid-day stroll, along with my friend and canine companion, Lord Shack. The three of us have a merry time and I make sure to nibble at the berries I encounter in the bushes. It is lunchtime, after all!

Diary, that is all for today. The noble life can be exhausting, filled as it is with so many obligations, including walks, and barking at trucks. Speaking of which–here comes one now!

Cheerio!