Archive | 3:40 pm

Tea in San Francisco, Lunch in London, Supper in Paris

18 Apr

I simply had to put that title down for posterity (or until WordPress decides to pack up, anyway) because who knows when it will happen again. Because it sounds cool. Because this jet-setting life is always somebody else’s. Because my work trips have involved bussing to the zoo on good days and a dash to the kiddie bathroom on not-so-awesome ones. So yes, I wrapped up my last day of work at 8 pm on a Friday, sent out one more email on Saturday (because I’m obsessive that way), whittled the weekend away and, come Monday, let out a long screech of pre-packing/shopping/getting-shit-together panic.

Never mind. The title should tell you I made it. Here’s how:

After saying goodbye to the Boy like I was sinking with the Titanic, I made it to the bonsai buckets they call plane seats these days. Now granted, I’m chubby, but my legs can’t have grown longer in the past year, no? Virgin Atlantic, it’s a pity real life isn’t Twitter, else you’d have a big #FAIL from me on that front. Nine and a half uncomfortable hours later, that included a stewardess’ generous hips near-smashing my shoulder (No, you cannot ask “How do these things happen to you?” I don’t know.) our plane swooped down onto Heathrow tarmac and my heart took flight.

Ever since my last visit almost two years ago, the Boy has had to put up with a daily buzz in his brain that whines “I want to go to London” in a loop—in my voice. Sometimes people have such problems.  Anyhoo, he now reports it missing and I think I detected relief over the telephone line.

Eynsford greeted me with a pretty curtsy. You look as charming as ever, I said, and the sun shone in agreement. Bags dropped off, my uncle, aunt and I were off to the neighboring village of Otford for lunch.  (For matters of comparison, and between you and me only, Otford is the pretty sister, while Eynsford is eye-poppingly gorgeous, and I’m sure many childhood complexes still fester ‘tween the two.)

Fish pie at The Bull and poking around in the antiques shop happened in quick succession, and it was home again, home again, jiggetty jig, for I had a train to catch. Mere mortals fly 10 hours and whine about jet lag. People in orange pyjamas go the extra mile and channel, and cross over into neighboring countries. In an episode of OJ meets Eurostar and emerges triumphant, my journey to Paris began.

Coming up next: Paris and its pretty boys.

Stay tuned.