We Kept Splitting Up, But We Ended Thursday Together

Thursday morning we made a plan at breakfast: The Dad, The Sister, The Boy, and The Girl would go to Notre Dame and Sainte Chapell. Having seen both, I would stay at the hotel and play family historian and then meet up with them at the center of Paris. 

There really is a center of Paris. All distances are measured from it.  

I was excited for all involved (except myself) when I heard that they went up in the tower to check out the gargoyles (in French gargoyle is: gar-gwee -- clearly not spelled that way). I didn't hear that part of the plan, and usually The Dad doesn't want to stand in an additional line, so it didn't dawn on me. Ah well. The kids and the sister loved seeing the stone creatures up close and getting a view of the city different than the one from the top of the Eiffel Tower. And truth be told, my legs were so tight from the billions of stairs the day before that I think they might have gone PING! and snapped right off from my body. 

After meeting up we planned on all going through the cathedral, but The Boy was almost in tears because he needed the toilet so badly (he had already gone twice since leaving the hotel, so The Dad was slow to assist). So again, we separated -- the girls made a sweep of the cathedral (and I got updated on shenanigans that happened while I was at the hotel between The Dad and The Boy when they went to a store to buy drinks -- the two of them are so alike they often frustrate one another... it was very funny in the retelling, though I could tell the girls are starting to get miffed at the boys). Then finally, we were all together again. 

Unbelievably, The Girl realized that while she absolutely had not needed the toilet when The Dad and The Boy set off to locate one (again -- Paris is stingy with her toilets), as we headed out to find lunch she realized that she now needed one -- badly. 

While searching we passed the Hotel des 3 colleges where Gabriel Garcia Marquez wrote the novella: No One Writes to the Colonel. We make a point to mention authors that we like -- maybe a brief who they were or what they wrote -- because it's human nature to like things that we're comfortable with. Every reference is just a little familiarity. 

Toilet found (after a few attempts and head shaking: Noh!). After stopping for supplies (oh, I can't express the mirth bubbling out of the kids when they made The Dad order "two Paris-Brests" at the boulangerie. Yes. I know.), we went and had lunch in the Jardin du Luxembourg. It was fun (that garden is so pretty), but the cheese and bread wasn't as good as the day before. But even mediocre bread and cheese in a park in Paris is better than no bread and cheese, or no park in Paris. 

While at the park we received a call from our Parisian friend (The Dad served his mission in France and is still very close to the most lovely family), and once again we decided to split up because of logistics (number of car seats, etc.). The Sister wanted to see some of the fashion that Paris is so known for, and The Girl wanted to check out a cute pet store that we went to last time by the Parc de Bercy. So, The Sister and I went to Galeries Lafayette, while The Dad took the kids to meet up with our friend and check out the pet store. 

Apparently there were darling bunnies at the pet store. 

As for The Sister and I, we saw how the other half (or other 1%) lives. It is indeed a lovely shopping space, and there was an impressive quantity of designer clothes, handbags, etc. Perhaps my favorite area was the food shop. Among other lovelies there were sugar cubes in the shape of birds that I got really excited about... before I saw the price. We bought nothing, but had fun being together. 

Walking to our rendezvous point -- the Musee d'Orsay -- we passed by the opera house, through the Place Vendome, across the gardens, and over the bridge -- which is a very picturesque (and preposition-loaded) way to approach the museum.

While The Sister and I were in line we both saw a kid with his head studiously bent -- studying the floor plan -- dart past: The Boy! 

We all love the museum, but we were all too tired. The benches were like magnets to our magnetic bums. I can't express how draggy we were by this point. We gave it a good go. The Boy was really enthusiastic at first, and begrudged us the benches, but even he started to falter before The Dad would throw in the towel. When the kids and I passed of piece of art with the image of a woman holding her breasts while a red liquid gushed out of the nipples, the kids looked at me, and I looked at them and we decided that we were done. Finally, The Dad conceded to move along.

Our next stop was the Pont des Arts (bridge). We walked down along the river to get there, and I'll have to say that I did not begrudge the stench of urine radiating from the stones -- I know how hard it is to find a toilet in this town. Our destination was the bridge because we had a padlock to add to the gajillion padlocks that have been added to the fence along the bridge. I guess it started in Rome over ten years ago because of a book, and now most of the big cities have a padlock bridge. We even see random padlocks affixed to the fences around Central Park. The deal is that you write the name of who you love and then throw the key in the river to ensure that the love is never broken. There are many variations to the theme. The Dad wrote all of our initials on one side, our family motto on the other, and as there were three keys we gave one to each youngster and told them to make a wish and chuck it in... after the police passed. 

For posterity: the location of our padlock is by the sixth light post (starting at the left bank) -- because it was the 6th of June -- facing the Pont Neuf. 

I mentioned we were insanely tired, right? And yet The Dad felt we should do one more thing... walk to the top of the Arc de Triomphe because it was the only opportunity that he felt we would have. Grrrrr... We did it. More stairs, yes, more stairs. When we got to the top and I scrambled up on the ledge to look out I couldn't quite bend my legs right to hop back down. The kids are like little gummy children. They chatter away as they climb the stairs and have made no mention of achey legs (though they do have a rash... grrrr again...). The details are extreme. The stairs are many. Perhaps I'm missing the sobriety required of an arch, but I will say that the plans that could have gone there (an elephant building!) would have been good, too. I like these facts about the arc. 

It was almost 11 in the pm when we finished, but apparently somebody had promised something about glace.  Finally we found a restaurant that served it, but it was a much bigger, and longer production than could be imagined (when The Dad started asking if anybody wanted to "mix in toppings" I was like: are you kidding? This is not the time for mix-ins... this is the time for get-it-done). I sat down at that table feeling like I would never not be tired again. 

France... Wednesday

Bonjour! I can tell you -- morning comes early on this trip. After breakfast at the hotel (how I love the drinkable yogurt and pastries... I've gained an easy ten pounds), we set off for the Eiffel Tower. However, after several failed attempts we discovered that the machines at the metro station did not want to accept foreign debit or credit cards (this after I rudely wondered what the hold up was in line... once we got to the front and were the holder-uppers I was very repentant). Not only was it frustrating, but an arctic wind was blasting through that front part of the metro station where the petulant ticket machines are located. Eventually, we left The Dad to figure it out, and The Sister and I took the children up to the sunshine. It was a good thing that we did, as they rescued a bee who was somehow rendered flightless, from being trampled on. By the time they were done with the rescue mission he was dusty, but safe. 

Finally (after having to resort to cash), we were on our way. The space between the metro stop and the Eiffel Tower reminds me of my time in China because of the amount of people who approach to sell trinkets. Further from the tower little keychains are sold fairly consistently for three for one euro. Closer to the tower you can get four for one euro (the reasoning must be that you're a tough nut to crack if you've made it that far without buying them, so the incentive needs to be sweeter). I told the kids how in China I, or a friend, would buy something off the street for like one dollar and feel really good about the purchase, then somebody else from the group would come back and be all: look, I got TWO for one dollar! And bitterness would well up. Over a dollar. The negotiating culture releases an inner beast. 

Another way that euros and tourists are parted is via creative panhandling. This usually takes one of two forms: pets or games. The latter is usually a guess-what-cup-it's-under variety. Why would anybody in their right mind think that they can outsmart somebody who is willing to stand on the street and play that game all day for a living? The former... Well, let's just say that The Girl has convinced us to contribute to pet maintenance. Perhaps the most unusual has been the bunnies. There was a large rabbit, and four bunnies. There were no tethers or cages, just happy bunnies who licked each other and pumped their petite noses. We couldn't chuck our change into the bowl fast enough. 

The two other visits I've made to the Eiffel Tower have consisted of taking the lift to the 2nd floor. But our group was feeling restless, and perhaps a bit bitter at having stood in line so long for metro tickets, so we opted to take the stairs to the 2nd floor (strangely, the queue for the stairs was quite short). It made me appreciate how tall the tower is. While resting, we read some information that gave some history of the tower -- how it was only to be up for 20 years, people thought it was hideous, blah, blah, blah, blahtity blah (actually, some of the criticism about it sounded very similar to what is said about the London Eye), and then its permanent status was secured when it was turned into a transmitter tower. In fact, it was because of the Eiffel Tower that many people throughout Europe were able to watch Queen Elizabeth II's coronation in 1953. 

The option from the 2nd floor is to go back down, or slap down some more euros and take the lift up to the top. We decided to do that. Barf. The way up felt like we were about to be shot off the top -- it went a lot quicker than I was expecting, and the windows were a lot... clearer... 

There are 347 steps up to the 1st floor, and 674 steps up to the 2nd floor. I felt every single one of them. The kids just chatted away as if we were strolling through the park. 

It was a brilliant move on somebody's part to put a dummy on the outside of the lift where the operators used to sit. Very cool. Note: everybody using the lift were SOFT. 

It's so cool how you can see the rues extending out from the Arc de Triomphe. 

To the catacombes. 

To be honest, I didn't really know what this was. I just follow along on these trips, occasionally contributing, often complaining... However, as we made it to the front of the line (took a while), and I started making out the word "disturbing" and "nervous dispositions" on the signs I demanded some clarification. Clarification gained, I suggested that this not be something that we do as a family. The Sister really wanted to go, so I tried to back out of the line with the kids, only to be told that the end point was several blocks away. Sigh. The Dad backed out with the kids, and I started the descent down below the streets of Paris. 

It all started because of geology. Limestone happened. Billions of years later limestone was found. Limestone was wanted. Limestone was quarried as early as 1292... and many of the beautiful buildings that make Paris Paris show how it was used. Those mines were underground as Paris sprawled for the next few hundred years, and eventually, there were cave-ins. In the 18th century the government began a program to stabilize the quarries. Stabilized, they became the perfect place to alleviate a problem that was developing: the living being overrun by the dead. Cemeteries, specifically the Saints Innocents were taking in way more bodies than their grounds could absorb and the mass of decaying matter was an origin of infection for the inhabitants of the area. Something had to be done, and so the quarries were consecrated and the bones were chucked in the tunnels. Eventually, some organization kicked in (kind of macabre organization, if you ask me -- stacks of leg and arm bones with skulls facing out). There are over six MILLION bodies exhumed in the ossuary. And I felt like I saw all six million. The thing that was hard was to not feel crazy. On one hand your instinct is to start to shut everything out, by way of preservation, as you walk past unbelievable amounts of bones. On the other hand, you're trying not to lose perspective of the fact that these are human remains that deserve respect. It was a trip. People were taking pictures, and I felt icky about that. A person's grave is one thing, an anonymous person's skull propped up on a stack of hundreds of femurs is all together different. 

It was interesting to be there with The Sister. For a long time she wanted to be a forensic anthropologist and she is brilliant with bones. She was pointing things out. It would have been very educational if I wasn't mentally checked out (the mental equivalent of humming and rocking back and forth). Recently, as she's taken some college classes, talked to friends, and registered for full-time college for the fall she has switched from forensic anthropology to medicine. As we walked through the bones (and there were so many) she said, "I'm glad that we did this. I feel very confident in my decision to change my major. It's not that it freaks me out, it's just that I don't like it." And there you have it. If you have a teenager that you love tell you that he or she feels confident with a major decision, then you will gladly walk through miles of underground tunnels seeing millions of skeletons and breathing in who knows what. It was definitely worth it. Definitely interesting. Definitely not something that I ever need to do again.

Here's a picture looking up as we started the long walk out. The tunnels themselves are very impressive. 

There are sculptures done by a quarryman who was a veteran of Louis XV's army. They are impressive, though I can't figure out why anybody would spend off hours down there. I was more than ready to resurface.

We felt like we needed a shower. It was time for lunch. The Dad and the children acted as hunter gatherers and came back with fromage, from a fromagerie, fruit, water, and drinkable yogurt. We stopped at a boulangerie to get baguettes and french pastries, and then headed over to Parc Souris. It was perfect. Everything tasted so good, and the park was so pretty. We sat in a little gazebo area and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. 

Of course, everybody needed to use the toilet. And Paris, she is stingy with her public toilets. On the way to the metro The Dad pointed out a cool city university that has houses from different countries done in the architecture of that country. Perhaps there's toilets on campus? We walked in to the main building with purpose and found some toilets. They were of the French variety -- meaning men and women share the same room. Kind of weird, and they weren't super clean, but we were grateful nonetheless. 

And then it was time to go to one of The Girl's favorite places -- Jardin d'Acclimatation. It's a smorgasbord of little carnival rides, live animals, playground, puppet shows, local kids taking equestrian lessons, french moms pushing strollers in high heels, a very tall dovecote, flowers, ponds, etc. and so forth. 

The kids rode plastic horses that jerkily, and quickly take you around a lovely little track. We saw many animals and birds. One of the things that we've learned on this trip is that all the babies are born in May/early June... so there are new little things everywhere. We especially appreciated some little ducklings that we saw who were all in one big pile snoozing. The Girl was purely happy. The Boy also enjoyed himself, for the animals and rides, but also for a piece of equipment in the playground. It was a sturdy metal thing with a seat, and you had to maneuver two different levers to make the scoop work. The surrounding sand was properly compliant and the kid happily spun around on the seat and dug with purpose. When frenchies would come up and talk to him he politely nodded and gave turns (whether that's what they wanted or not we'll never know), and as soon as the other child finished he slipped back into position, and into the zone. It is always good to watch your kids outdoors and happy. 

We stayed until we were kicked out. In fact, as one of the last families in the park the kids got to ride that dreadful ride where you sit in swings hanging from long chains and you get raised and you go around and around high up in the air. I had to make myself stop screaming things up to them ("Stop leaning over!"). They shared a double seat and they looked so sweet up there together. Only the two of them amongst all those empty swings, and so vulnerable with just that thin bar in front of them, but together and laughing. 

Back by our hotel we wandered the neighborhood (for far too long) before settling in at a restaurant and having some very bloody meat ("medium" means something different here). It will be tragic when we no longer get to take our meals outside. We are starting to feel the pinch of the trip coming to an end, and we don't like it. 

Tuesday -- Country Hopping

June 4th, 2013 was the day chosen to celebrate the 60th anniversary of Queen Elizabeth II's coronation on June 2, 1953. It was exciting to be just across the river from the events! After breakfast we went back to our room, with the Order of Service from The Times in hand, to watch the events on the telly. 

How it exciting it was for the kids and The Sister to see the very crown, scepter and consecrating oil vessel that they had just seen days before! How exciting to see the clips of the original coronation -- the Queen such a pretty young mother. An gentleman spoke of his experience 60 years ago as a dashing young footmen who had to powder his hair by applying a thick soap and then dusting it to make it white. A lady spoke of being one of the maids of honor, holding on to the silk handles underneath the Queen's train. And then they showed footage of that young queen being trailed by beautiful young women in dresses to die for. Three men sat and joked about their experience as choir boys during the coronation -- they said that they were given a sandwich, an apple, and some sweets to hide in their robes to keep them through the many hours. 

We had considered going down to Westminster to throw ourselves into the throng, but the decision to watch it all on the telly was brilliant, as that action, too -- while not as glamorous as the crown being returned to the Abbey -- was an integral part of the original coronation. The decision was made in 1953 to televise the coronation -- and apparently this was an enormous decision. It proved to be a bonding experience for the country even though it was pointed out that many watching probably didn't realize how much of the pageantry and traditions were established centuries ago. In fact, Westminster Abbey has been the place of coronations since William the Conqueror's coronation in 1066. Plus, had we not been watching on television, I wouldn't have been able to see how the ever-elegant Kate was handling pregnancy. She looked lovely as always -- I want her legs. 

It was kind of funny to be seeing the footage of the pageantry, and all the opulent fashion steeped in tradition, and then fast forward sixty years to when the queen arrived in "regular" clothes with her trusty handbag. I don't begrudge her not wearing the ermine-lined cloak, or wanting to keep track of her handbag... I'm just saying it was funny.

When an external shot panned the outside of the Abbey we exclaimed: "We're sitting in a room right there watching us sitting in a room right there..." I took a picture of the screen to remind us. 

As they were loading back into their cars it was time for us to vacate the room. But we knew that we wanted to stay in the neighborhood because at 2:30 the Westminster Abbey Company of Ringers was to ring a Coronation 60th Anniversary "celebratory peal of London Surprise Royal, made up of 5,060 changes." 

Fortunately, there were some awesome things to do in the neighborhood. 

When we stepped out we noticed the flag on top of the Abbey:

And we crossed the street to St. Thomas's hospital where Florence Nightingale set up her nursing school. Here's the old wing:

In a strange location in the newer, much uglier portion of the hospital is where the Florence Nightingale Museum is located. It is really well done, and considering that it's not large, it's impressive how much information is conveyed. Considering how much information is available, I love how they break it up by creating this "peeping into the hedge" display.

Yep. By peeping through the bushes you learn things not only about Ms. Nightingale, but also about the time period in which she lived. Context is so vital to really learning. She lived during the Victorian age, in fact, she was born the year after Queen Victoria was born. Considering all the propriety the Victorian age is known for, I rather like to consider that all this hedge-peeping was because many of the topics covered were things that would not have been fit for public discussion at the time.

Here's a quote from the museum: "She led the nurses caring for thousands of soldiers during the Crimean War and helped save the British army from medical disaster. This was just one of Florence's many achievements. She was also a visionary health reformer, a brilliant campaigner, the most influential woman in Victorian Britain and its Empire, second only to Queen Victoria herself." Considering that at the time the British Empire covered one-fourth of the entire world population, that is indeed impressive. 

She and her sister were homeschooled. Just thought I should include that. Her father taught her math, something somewhat unusual for the time, and she attributed this part of her education for her appreciation of statistics (something that became a huge part of her political campaigning in later years). From the museum: "The Nightingales were well-off, well-connected and from the upper-middle class. Their money originally came from lead mining. They were interested in the arts and the sciences, and believed in religious toleration and helping the poor. There was also a family tradition of supporting political reform. Florence's maternal grandfather William Smith, had been a Member of Parliament for many years and campaigned to end the slave trade." I appreciated that she was from a comfortable life, as it stands as an example that anybody who has insight, compassion, and intelligence can help tackle a social problem. It's not just the kid who grew up on the streets who can "understand" and make a difference in an authentic way. 

Florence never married. At least twice she was tempted and had long almost-kind-of engagements. In one case, after seven years of thinking about it, she finally turned down what would have been a very good match -- causing her mother to pop her wig. History proved that perhaps Florence made the right call though, as by not being the wife of poet/politician Richard Monckton Milnes she wasn't impacted by his interest in erotica, pornography, and the Marquis de Sade. As it was, they remained friends, and as a politician he was able to champion her causes. She often said that she was choosing to remain single, as she felt that she had received a specific calling from God. This did not please her parents, though they did continue to financially support her for as long as it was needed. 

So Florence follows her calling. During the day she acted the part of the high society, proper daughter. During the night she secretly studied her guts out and learned all that she could in the medical sphere. Eventually, she is allowed to pursue nursing. And then came the Crimean War (the Turkish government refused Russia's "demand to protect Orthodox Christians within it's declining Ottoman Empire... But there was a broader reason for the war. The British and the French were anxious that Russia.. not expand its empire, as this was a potential threat to their trade routes and territories."). Less than a year into the war the British soldiers, fighting with French and Ottoman Turks, were not just dying by Russian ammunition, but three to four times as many were dying because of rampant disease. The secretary of the state at war wrote to Florence and asked her to organize a group of nurses. She was incredibly selective, and in the end it was with 38 courageous women that she set sail for what is now Istanbul. 

One of the women not selected to be among Florence's group was Mary Seacole. Like her African-Carribean mother, she was an "herbalist" and a hotel keeper. Further, her father was a Scottish solider. With that background, and a strong desire to help, she sailed towards the Crimean War on her own. She set up a general store and unofficial surgery. Many soldiers were very loyal to her, and referred to her as Mother Seacole. The end of the war found her bankrupt, but many soldiers rallied and organized benefit concerts and helped her publicize her memoirs. 

While Florence was making her way to Turkey her pet owl, Athena, died. When she learned of it she was very upset and wrote, "Poor little beastie, it was odd how much I loved you." 

The Crimean War. Well, it was a disaster. The hospital where Florence and her nurses were was built over a cesspool. Regardless of the insightful practices and crazy hard work, the death rate would not drop. Finally, an engineer came and cleaned up the muck from below, and only then did they see an improvement. Florence was loved by the soldiers, as she would indeed make continuous rounds -- impervious to her fatigue -- with a lamp at all hours of the night. 

When she got home she wanted to fully understand exactly what went wrong in the military hospitals, and she used the knowledge that she gained to fight for health care reform. She was ill. Several times it was assumed that she would die, but from her bed she wrote gazillions of letters and constantly researched. There was some desire to "whitewash" or cover up the fact that the British hospitals were so jacked up, but even though the very hospital that she was at was the worst, she refused to have anything covered up, as she felt that it would hinder progress. The woman was awesome. She was known to say, "I attribute my success to this: I never gave or took an excuse." Prince Albert designed and Queen Victoria awarded her a medal of honor for her work, and while "she was honored, she felt that Prince Albert believed too much in the power in medals to bring about reform." The woman was awesome. And though most of her middle-aged life was spent in bed, she did end up living to be 90. 

The museum was quite interactive, for example, there were spices that Mary Seacole would have used to be touched and smelled, and there were sheets of paper (and a postbox) for people to write down what reform they think is currently necessary/what causes they would campaign for. 

Also in the area is the Garden Museum. A sweet little spot that made me happy to support. From the museum's materials: "The Garden Museum was founded in 1977 in order to preserve the church in which John Tradescant, 'the Shakespeare of gardening' was buried in 1638. The first church built on this site was built before the Norman Conquest, by Goda, sister of King Edward the Confessor, in 1062... In 1972 the church was deconsecrated, the structure was crumbling, and the congregation found a new home. Four years later our founder, Rosemary Nicholson, read a biography of Tradescant and made a pilgrimage to his tomb. She was shocked to discover the church derelict. She was determined to save the building from demolition and raised the funds to repair the structure, and to set up the world's first museum of garden history. John Tradescant (c.1570-1638) was the first celebrated gardener in British history, he was gardener to King James I and Charles I..." A woman reads the biography of a gardener who lived 300 years before and decided to find his tomb. Finds a mess of a church and decides to raise the funds to save it. Opens the first museum dedicated to gardening. Like Ms. Nightingale, she sounds like somebody that I would have liked to know... to have as an aunt or something. The structure is fascinating -- an aged church sheltering modern stairs and shelves and a cafe...

The gift shop had "seed boms." The Girl thought that they sounded fun; The Boy thought that they sounded like the best solution to war -- just chuck a seed bom at the enemy and scream: "The flowers will be coming up soon." 

We learned that garden gnomes originated in 19th century Germany, and came to England in 1847. They are banned from the posh Chelsea Flower Show. Oh. British snobbery. 

The thumb-pot is absolutely brilliant. It has holes in the bottom, and after submerging the entire pot, and letting it fill, you put your thumb over the top hole to create suction. Then, as you go through the garden and want to just sprinkle water, you release your thumb and water can come from the holes on the bottom... 

First lawn mower was invented in 1885 by a gardener. Back then, if you were a gardener working for somebody else, you were in charge of all your own tools. Necessity is the mother of invention. 

The seed displays were so aesthetically pleasing. Because we learned at the Beatrix Potter experience that some vegetables have gone in and out of favor in seed catalogues, we thought to check to see if there were any varieties that were no longer popular. We are curious as to what "Breakfast Radishes" are?

Aside from the seed packets, there were other examples of how design was/is a part of the gardening world. Here was a pamphlet put out during the war (1944):

"Many people are anxiously looking forward to the day when their leisure hours can be devoted to growing flowers again. But the needs of the nation come first and the production of food must be given pride of place for at least another year." Not to minimize the duration of a full decade, but it is interesting to consider whether or not it would have seemed incredulous to some if they had been told that in ten years, this would be the gardening publication:

An It's a Small World motif with the words: "Be a happy, carefree gardener" scrawled across the bottom. Carefree just seems a world away from growing necessary vegetables during wartime. Sometimes a decade is a world away. I've certainly learned during our scheme that just one short year can completely change perceptions, relationships, future trajectories... 

We finished up, and after strolling through the little garden out back, began our preparations for the 2:30 bell ringing. Namely, getting sandwiches and positioning ourselves on a bench by parliament. According to the clock on Big Ben's tower 2:30 came and went. We began to worry that perhaps the bell ringing was something happening inside the Abbey? Were we perhaps too far away to hear them over the clamor of busy London? At one point I said that I "was crushed, but recovering..." The Sister agreed... The Girl said that she wasn't crushed, so there wasn't a need to recover... BUT, then... peals and notes and notes and peals came tumbling out, rolling over each other and filling the air with sound bubbles floating around us, bobbing and then eventually popping out of existence as new bubbles came into existence. It was awesome. 

This is where we were and what we were looking at when the bells went off:

We happily munched our sandwiches, and then with the bells STILL going we walked towards their source. The camera crews were still camped everywhere, and the crowds were still being kept away from entering the Abbey.

Our main objective for the day -- hearing the bells -- reached, it was time to start heading toward the train station. The plan was for The Dad to head back to collect our laundry, stuff it into our bags waiting in the waiting closet at the hotel, and then load our two million bags into a taxi and meet us at St. Pancras. 

The kids and I still had a couple of things to do before leaving London.  

1. Ride at the top of a double-decker bus. Even though it was a completely inefficient way to get to St. Pancras, we obtained the necessary information and then waited for our first bus to come, to take us to the point of transfer where we then took a second bus on to the station. We were lucky-lucky. Both times we were able to get the very front seats at the top. Totally fun. Even though it smelled of urine in the corner when I bent down to retrieve my dropped Oyster card. 

The busing took so long, that we became cramped for time. Nonetheless, we popped off at the British Library, as The Boy desperately wanted to see Robert Falcon Scott's journals, and made a desperate dash for it. Unfortunately, when we gained the information counter, panting, we were told by the most long-winded bloke that he thought the journals were out on loan, but he wasn't sure... So we ran up the steps and checked every case in the gallery. There was a lot of great stuff that deserved our attention (i.e. the Magna Charta -- which I'm ashamed to say I had to look up to be reminded what it was: done in 1215, it was the first document forced on a monarch by a group of subjects... it began the very long process toward constitutional law in the English-speaking world... eventually everything in it had been repealed, but during the English civil war it became a motivating symbol... and was actually a reference point for early settlers in American... and eventually the United States Constitution). Unfortunately, it was true that the journals were loaned out. The Boy was disappointed, but handled it well.

From there we dashed past St. Pancras and over to King's Cross... to check out platform 9 3/4. We had heard that a sign had been put up... and it has, but true to capitalistic nature, in front of the sign (and cart, complete with trunk and bird cage sticking half out of the wall) was a queue of people waiting to pay to have their picture taken. Now, if the picture set-up was of you holding on the cart it might have been cool, but it was with Gryffindor scarves and wands -- more like a dual happening... outside in the snow. Now come on. Anyway, we scoffed at the situation and waiting between groups to just take a snap of the sign, sans dorky tourists. (That should read dorkier tourists). 

We met The Dad back at St. Pancras, got through security and the passport line, hunted/gathered some sandwiches, and waited for our train. As it turned out, our car was the furthest away from entry onto the platform. When I asked an employee she laughed and said, "Unfortunately, it's the very last one. Fortunately, you will be the first to enter Paris." I thought that was a fabulous response. 

The train ride went quickly: what with the kids trying to catch up on their journals, and our UK candy bar taste-testing. The Girl's mouse (that she bought at the FN museum to try to scare me) traveled in style:

We are in Paris, planted for the next five days down the street (one of them) from the Arc de Triomphe. At night we can see the sparkle-show on the Eiffel Tower from our window.