Signage anyone?

Signage anyone?

I had originally thought to write primarily on the travel across the channel.  

Albeit wasn't as miraculous as the lady that swam it, I did traverse it some distance under sea level and in a record 20 minutes.

 However that wasn't nearly the most impressive feat of the day. Finding the dang hotel required the sleuthing insight of Sherlock Holmes. 

It is no wonder the English lost the revolutionary war! Frankly, I'm surprised they could find the ships in their own harbor to set sail to the colonies, let alone find the new colonies to fight a war against the folks daring enough to get out of this confabulated country. I can say this because at least a fourth of my heritage is stationed just outside of London in the village of Lampton. There is a Lampton guest house, Lampton school, and I'm sure there is a Lampton pub because this place can drive the most sensible person to drink! 

Upon arrival at Kings Crossing I had hoped to find platform 9 3/4, however, Libby elected to get to the hotel and ditch our bags.  

One thing this trip has taught me is that I should bring even fewer clothes.  My suitcase weighs in at 45.5 pounds which does not seem like a lot but when you are the one hauling it up stairs and across granite cobblestone streets, it might as well weigh a few tons. I was, in fact, quite proud of my packing abilities since I got 12 days of clothes out of 18 pieces_inclusive of dress clothing and two pairs of shoes.  This Yankee can pack, ladies and gents! 

But 45 pounds is FORTY FIVE POUNDS! Libby's bag weighs in at 49.5 pounds. I know these weights because I was quite sure we'd be paying extra baggage fees, but we just skimmed under the required limit.  (What we will throw out for the flight home has yet to be determined.) Using our Oyster card, we took the metro from Kings Cross to the hotel located in central London.

 When we transferred at the Leicester station, Libby's bag handle broke. The handle came inside with her and the bag was caught partially OUTSIDE the tube car door. The doors shut upon the bag, Libby's eyes got huge, and super mom dove into to action to push open the tube doors and yank in the dang thing.  The British chap standing by Libby looked on as if he needed to pass gas.  Chivalry must have died in England with the advent of the tube.

Still armed with two hefty suitcases, we continued on to the Waterloo station. This station is huge and has no less than 64,000 exits-except not a one has any signage except "way out" with arrows pointing in varying directions.  I had no idea which was the proper exit as the instructions said to take the Waterloo street exit.  We did.  It put us about as far away from the hotel as one could possibly be and folks, the British clearly do not believe in road signs either.  The hotel is literally next to the London Eye, so how hard could it be to find?  Frankly, it was bloody impossible!  There is an unmarked alley way that goes under a small arched tunnel and then opens into a lovely court that has the front entrance to the hotel.  How did I finding t? Elementary, dear Watson.  I asked a nice bloke for directions who was not a native Brit. 

The doorman was darling, greeting us with a cheery smile and asking how our travels had been.  Quietly, I told him that perhaps if he asked me in a short bit, I would have an answer but just now I was about to throw a good old American temper tantrum. Lady Mary, I am not. 

Once we made it to the room and saw our unbelievable view, my frustrations quieted.  

I felt even better after a pint and fish and chips in a neighborhood pub. 

Maybe these Brits are on to something.  Tonight we go to Woman in Black in the West End, which thankfully, requires no metro, no bus, and no street signs.  Yes, Virginia, there is a God.  But, ah HA! There are signs for the super important things.