london journal

It's a new year, and I'm starting a new role as co-director of CSU, Fresno's London Semester program. This seems as good a reason as any to get back into blogging--we'll just see how it goes.

I arrived in London yesterday, but not without much ado. My co-director, Shane, and I were scheduled to fly out of Fresno on the morning of Jan. 4, connect to a London flight at SFO, and arrive in London early in the morning on Jan. 5. When we arrived at the Fresno Airport, we learned that our Fresno-San Francisco flight was delayed because the plane hadn't arrived from Vegas. We were worried at hearing this news, because we had a quick layover in SF. We soon learned that the flight would be delayed indefinitely, and we realized we wouldn't make our connection to London. However, when we inquired at the ticketing desk, we also learned that there were no seats on any United flight to London--leaving any airport in North America--until Jan. 6. This would have put us in London only two days before our students were to arrive, and we had many tasks to accomplish in London before our students showed up. We found a sympathetic United ticketing agent who booked us on an already overbooked SF to London flight leaving later that evening. So, we awaited the plane that had been delayed in Vegas, and when it arrived, we boarded and readied to fly to San Francisco. But just as we settled into our seats, our pilot announced that the altimeter wasn't functioning, and that all passengers would have to disembark so that the plane could be taken to a hangar for repairs. When we asked at the desk when another plane would be flying to San Francisco, we learned that none were scheduled that would get us there in time to make our connection to London.

Panicked, we reviewed our alternatives and decided that we would have just enough time to take a rental car to San Francisco and make the overbooked flight--and then cross our fingers in hopes that we would be assigned seats. Shane rented the car, I hauled our luggage to the curb, and we sped off for San Francisco. And when I say "sped" I mean like the proverbial bat out of hell, as Shane, who is driver of maniacal proclivities, takes to highway driving like an intoxicated but determined cheetah. I spent the three plus hours of the trip shouting "80! You cannot exceed 80 miles an hour!" And "If you get pulled over, you won't be worrying about a citation, because I will have strangled you!" Careening into the Enterprise rental car center at SFO, we raced to the International terminal, and found our way to the United counter. I was certain we would be told that the flight is overbooked (we'd been told it was) and that we would have to settle with standby status; but Our Lady of Airline Travel must have had mercy upon us, as the kind fellow at the counter took our bags and handed us a couple of boarding passes with blessed seat assignments. What's more, we were both granted aisle seats! (Shane, of course, wrangled for an upgrade, but to no avail. I think it serves him right that he ended up in economy, while I luxuriated in Economy Plus.)

The flight to London was the most comfortable, relaxing international flight I've ever experienced. I sat next to a lad in his late teens with prideful locks, who preened himself the entire ten hour flight, but this was more amusing than it was annoying. I even slept that final five hours of the flight, and for me, that's unheard of. (I supposed I could go on about the singularly unappetizing meatloaf dinner, but I don't want to come across as unappreciative, so I won't.)

Upon landing, we gathered our bags, readily found a cab, and made our way to Vincent House, our lodgings for the next three months. Vincent House is a a residence for professionals working in London. Its founder was a woman who lived to see her dream of providing acceptable housing for London-based professionals come true. Some feed the poor, some rescue mistreated pets, others feel obliged to attend to the pressing needs of professionals who prefer to reside in lodgings replete with a "club like atmosphere."

And it is, in fact, a fine place to stay: on the ground floor is a dining facility (two meals daily come with price of lodging), a lounge, a bar, and a snooker table. (I don't know the first thing about snooker, but it sure is an amusing word to say aloud.) The rooms are small and spare, but comfortable, and they are cleaned daily. What's more, we have our own loos.

Here are a couple of pics of my room:



Here's the view from my window onto Pembridge Square in Notting Hill:


And here's a picture of some toilet paper that I very much dislike:


I'm beginning to learn the dos and don'ts of Vincent House: last night one choice for the main entree was leg of Guinea Hen. And when I placed two of these small morsels on my plate, a dining hall operative came to me and decreed, "Tonight I'll let you take two. But only tonight." I was a little taken aback, as the Guinea legs weren't what you'd call plentiful, and only two minutes later, the staff whisked them away, along with all the other bins of uneaten food on the buffet. I guess it's a matter of principle here: you shouldn't get accustomed to such extravagances. On the bright side, the enforcement of such policies just might have the effect of my losing some weight. More anon.