We learned the hard way that you can’t pay cash to ride a bus, nor if you are American are you likely to be able to pay with your credit or debit card. (It’s missing some sort of chip that British cards have…and I don’t mean “the chip” of “chip and pin” which American credit cards now have.) We also learned that I can’t simply use my Oyster card twice on a bus to get a ride for myself and a friend (unlike in, say, NYC, where you can swipe your metro transit card twice or however many times needed to get your entire party through the turnstiles.)
So how did Merida get on the bus, especially given the unusually unpleasant nature of the bus driver? Another passenger, one of several older women trying to help us, used her bank card to pay Merida’s fare. Then there was a lively debate by no less than five kind older passengers on what Merida needed do in order to buy a return fare. (They suggested she get off the bus, before our destination, at the Richmond train station so she could pick up some variety of fare card.)
We did finally make it to the sweet rustic cafe at Petersham Nurseries, where we learned (the hard way) that it doesn’t serve a proper English breakfast, as hoped, but we did have a nice flat white coffee and another scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam, surrounded by glorious flowers (hydrangea, camellia, daffodils) in bloom.
Onto the toe path along the Thames, since the sun was unexpectedly shining fiercely (although the strong wind should have been a warning of worse weather to come). We walked past Richmond pubs on the river and lovely Richmond Green, with stately red brick homes and blossoms on the trees. Unfortunately we learned the hard way (do you detect a theme?) that Google maps is not always accurate (especially when an entrance to a little country passage or lane is unexpectedly closed) and the walk back to Kew was longer than expected. The sun shrank, the sky darkened and the wind kicked up but fortunately it didn’t start raining (yet) and Marion, at age almost 82, was a trooper! We walked 17,070 steps/6.4 miles and climbed 18 floors, according to Marion’s know-it-all phone. We deserved our Prosecco and Eton Mess, see below!
Emerging from the Thames Path onto Kew Green, we stumbled into the nearest pub, The Cricketers, which turned out to be a winner. We had big glasses of hard cider, my pate and bread sufficed and we all enjoyed an “Eton Mess,” whipped cream with strawberries, bits of meringue and shortbread.
We are now happily gathered around a fire in the living room of our Kew Airbnb, Prosecco in hand, enjoying each other’s company on our last night together…this trip.
Marion, Merida and I are bunking in a lovely Airbnb on Sandycombe Road in Kew, a pretty village in the London Borough of Richmond. Our friend Pam, who lives nearby, picked us up in her sweet little Fiat 500 and drove us around Richmond, where we stopped for coffee at the pleasant Richmond Hill Bakery, up the street from a glorious view from on high of Richmond Park (and near Mick Jagger’s house, we were told.)
We Ubered over to Hampton Court, which hasn’t changed much since I last visited with my kids about 14 years ago, except for the experience itself, which combined high-tech (a handy audio tour headset) and low-tech (a staged play in William III’s living quarters featuring the same characters portrayed in the movie “The Favourite,” part of which was filmed there.)
We got lost a time or two but it was a treat to be able to wander around on our own. We also had a good quick lunch in a cafe in an old room (baked potato with cheese, greens) and toured some nice gift shops, beyond the spectacularly ornate royal rooms and the great old kitchen rooms. 
Merida and I also wore borrowed long velvet capes, a nice option (that kept us warm) on a rainy day and made me feel a bit like a Hogwarts student. Undeterred by rain, we wandered around the formal gardens past bizarrely trimmed trees that looked like hedges on stilts.
More memories of London visits with my kids when they were little cropped up when M, M and I had cream tea at the famous old Kew tea house, Maids of Honour. Fourteen years ago, D and I ended up here with the kids after an attempted walk to Kew Gardens from Francine and Russ’s house in Mortlake ended abruptly, due to a downpour. Thank God for the Maids of Honour, which 14 years ago we stumbled into soaking wet. This time we were also wet but not as wet. The scones were as light and the clotted cream as rich as I remembered.
The skies cleared, exactly when we needed them to — for a glorious four mile walk atop the White Cliffs Of Dover. As recommended by our Airbnb host, we took a cab from Deal to the Cliffs National Trust visitors center, perched on the cliffs overlooking the bustling port of Dover, a poignant reminder these days of the looming disaster known as Brexit. If Britain does leave the E.U., Dover — the busiest British Port with the E.U. — will likely be a mess, with long queues of trucks, in particular, no longer able to drive through without a passport control stop.
We had some coffee and shopped for upmarket souvenirs, then set off on the dirt and often muddy or soupy path across the grassy fields atop the dramatic white cliffs. We could see Dover Castle (worth a visit I’m told) to the southwest and, vaguely, the French coast, 21 miles across the sea to the east. Some flowers were in bloom, a sight for sore eyes, after unseasonably warm weather here last week.
Our walk ended in the bay of the tiny village of St. Margaret’s at Cliff, where we had an excellent lunch (scampi and chips, Kentish sausage and mash, lemon curd creme brulee) at a cozy Pub called The Coastguard on-the-bay. After lunch, we walked on the beach of blue, white and tan stones bordered by a towering white cliff with a few homes perched on the top. And then we walked up a steep winding road to the cliff -top village green where we boarded a bus full of uniformed school kids for the ride back to Deal.
By late afternoon, the sky was a dramatic darkening shelf, highlighted by a setting sun above the long row of terraced houses lining the coast for miles. You could see why Turner painted in nearby Margate, now home to a museum named after him. We shared a well-earned pot of tea at the trendy restaurant at the end of the pier.
A rainy day in Deal and we were all happy to lounge around in this lovely house, reading the Sunday papers and drinking tea and catching up. I’ve also learned about some uniquely English television shows that no doubt will end up being copied in the U.S. My favorite is Goggle Box, a reality show about people watching television. I had to laugh. So English. But somehow the people sitting on their couch talking about what they are watching on the Telly are amusing. Although not sure I would be a regular viewer. Also learning to appreciate Steve Coogan’s satirical news show “This time with Alan Partridge.”
As promised, this is a charming seaside village with narrow lanes leading to the sea, lined with beautifully tended cottages and terraced homes in pale blue and creamy white, made of old wood and narrow red brick. I can’t get enough of it. The town has enough sophistication to be well above average but also an unaffected, unassuming air. After waking up to my bedroom view of the pale green and blue sea, we walked down the lane a few blocks to the Saturday market, a small one-block gathering of bakers, fruit venders, cheese mongers and bric brac stalls, often with vintage goodies from nearby France including heavy linen smocks, berets and tablecloths. We bought some buns from a Swedish woman, some local tangy Kentish blue cheese and smoked cheddar, fruit and veg.
Along High Street we popped into several small boutiques with carefully chosen and often pricey goods including silk kimonos, boiled wool slippers, lovely little cards and French country bread.
We walked for 1.5 miles past Deal Castle to Walmer Castle (both built by Henry the 8th in the 16th Century) which looked more like a country home with cannons and a moat. It’s early season so not too many tourists. We passed families with kids braving the beach, older folks with their dogs, even a few jet skiers but it was mostly quiet and peaceful.
Una, our generous host, who discovered this village and whose friends own the house where we are staying, arrived from London, a sight for sore eyes. Russ and I cooked dinner — my pasta puttanesca, Russ’s salad — and we enjoyed a lovely meal.
We walked back down to the High Street to hear some live music in a tiny wine shop/bar, Le Pinardier, a guy playing Irish, Scott and bluegrass banjo and guitar songs, a woman playing the fiddle, to about 15 people in the cozy place run by a young handsome Frenchman. A near perfect day and night. Only wish Dirck could be here but glad to hear he arrived safely in Beijing.
An art exhibit I was dying to see in DC turned out to be in LA this trip, hence our first trip to LACMA, which was a great option on a chilly Sunday. The show, about the interplay between untrained and trained artists, was fascinating and as I suspected, one of my favorite Kansas sights, The Garden of Eden in the small rural town of Lucas got a prominent nod in the exhibit (“Outliers and American Vanguard Art.”)
We did wake up to blue skies which was a welcome change. Outside our sweet little Airbnb casita, we sat beside the pool (not heated so too cold to swim in) and looked out across the green lawn and tall palm trees to the snow-capped mountains in the distance. It finally felt like we were in California (or Tucson). After a nice chat with another Airbnb guest from Rochester NY (by way of Sparta, Wisconsin) and our very nice hosts (she from Dublin, he from Illinois) we set out for a day at Joshua Tree National Park, about an hour drive northeast.
En route we stopped for a very good breakfast (huevos rancheros, mike’s mess – scrambled eggs with goodies) at the rustic Crossroads Cafe in the town of Joshua Tree, then onto the park visitors center where a very nice ranger originally from Romania gave us some great recommendations for short hikes and drives in the park. We also discovered that Dirck is now at the grand old age of 62 able to get a year pass to any national park for $20, cheaper than the $30 one day pass to Joshua Tree.
The weather was nippy (glad I brought my light down jacket) but the sky clear, albeit not always blue, and we spent several hours hiking and diving past the strange Joshua trees, which look like giant bristle brushes used to clean the inside of bottles. Dr. Seuss must have visited. We felt like we were walking The Lorax. The strange giant boulder formations (skull rock and jumbo rocks) were cool to see and we took two easy 1 mile walks (Hidden Valley, Barker Dam). We had a spectacular views from Key Point of The rugged San Bernardino mountains and in the distance the Salton Sea and even Palm Springs. Like Palm Springs, there were also telltale signs of flooding at Joshua Tree but the water had receded by morning in both places, fortunately.
Dinner was delicious ribs, steak, red rice and margaritas at Pappy and Harriet’s, a large ramshackle honky tonk place in Pioneertown, a strange forlorn community high in the mountains on a former film set for westerns. 
A band was setting up for a sold out show and tons of cars made the climb up a rough mountain road, with some sections covered with dirt after receding floodwaters. Unfortunately it started raining on our drive back to Burbank. Next trip: idlewood. 
Road trip day! I drove about an hour west to the Whitney Plantation. What a change from the plantations I’ve visited in the past. Since the late 1980s, I’ve visited three. The first one, Oak Alley, I think, was all Scarlett O’Hara, little to no mention of slavery. The second one, the Laura Plantation, seven years ago, was the rare woman-led plantation and slavery got a brief mention.
The Whitney Plantation, opened in 2014, is entirely about slavery, with moving memorials that list all “the enslaved” (our guide’s term) by name and include photos etched into memorial walls and quotes with gruesome memories recalled by elderly people who somehow managed to survive the brutality of being enslaved on a sugar cane plantation/factory. There is also an emphasis on children who were slaves, with poignant sculptures of kids who lived there. Each visitor gets a pass to wear with a specific child’s name, a photo of a sculpture of the child and a quote from the elderly person who was once that child. Clever touch and it had us all looking in the church and old worn shacks and the Big House (which had a more sinister vibe then other plantations I’ve toured) for our child. Apparently the other plantations have cleaned up their act a bit and now mention slavery more, although none to the extent that the Whitney does. I was reminded a bit of concentration camps I’ve been to in Europe.
Lunch was a bowl of hot gumbo at nearby B & C Seafoods on Vacherie, where I ate seven years ago with my London pals, Francine and Russ. Solid roadside joint with friendly servers and locals.
From there I drove about an hour north and east to tiny Abita Springs, to visit a small folk art/grassroots art place called the Abita Mystery House, an old gas station packed with entertaining clutter/“found objects” that make fun of Southern stuff (UFO reports, Mardi Gras parades, voodoo). Reminded me of the town of Lucas, the grassroots art capital of Kansas.
I finally got my bearings after finding my way out of this massive hotel and into the French Quarter. It was harder than you’d think but only the first few minutes because of the strange way the hotel entrance is situated plus construction everywhere. I ended up at first behind the hotel on the Mississippi riverfront, where an old fashioned cruise boat was parked.
Once I emerged from the walkway, I found Canal Street and walked away from the river north a few blocks and hung a right on Decatur Street. In a few minutes I was in The French Quarter, in Jackson Square, in St. Louis Cathedral, all of which were particularly clogged with tourists, many wearing Saints gear because there is a big football game here today, at another massive structure near our hotel, the Superdome.
As I left the cafe, a brass band was playing “Oh when the saints” while bystanders in Saints shirts boogied and cheered. I do love the spirit of this city. I wandered further east, crossing Esplanade Avenue and glancing not too fondly at The Frenchmen Hotel, where we stayed 7 years ago. Not the best experience. Walking up Frenchmen Street to dip briefly into the Faubourg Marigny neighborhood, I looked at the lineups listed at the music clubs, seeing famous names like Neville and Marsallas. Charmaine Neville is still singing at Snug Harbor, where we saw her in the late 1980s.
I tried to avoid Bourbon Street but had to cross it a few times to get to other streets like Royal, Chartres and Dauphine. As always, the architecture in the French quarter and Faubourg Marigny neighborhood is a charming eyeful. Brick mansions with elegant wrought iron balconies, small whimsically painted wood cottages, Creole plantation houses but I didn’t find the shops or galleries particularly interesting. What I liked best were the quiet residential streets, where the loveliness of the architecture and landscaping is not marred by tacky shops and loud bars.
Dinner, by design, at Compere Lapin, was very different from last night’s. Warehouse district (a six minute walk from our hotel) rather than Uptown/Carrollton; large and lively exposed brick space, attached to a hipster hotel vs. small and intimate in an old house on a quiet street. And the food was sort of bizarre, but it generally worked. The chef is from St.Lucia so there is Caribbean influence (coconut milk, bananas) but mixed with New Orleans, French and Italian notes. The waitress talked us into getting a goat curry with Thai flavors, cashews and gnocchi made with sweet potatoes (but fortunately not sweet tasting ) that was superb and completely original. The black eyed peas were also unusually prepared, with bacon and crispy fried Onions.
Millie did well last night at the comfort inn although as we expected, she slept with us, which didn’t help my ability to sleep. she only barked a few times, when other people were coming into mearby rooms. She ate her dinner but was too distracted this morning to eat again. We saw two other dogs in another room. One little one yapped a little. We are not sure we were charged for me, although we were told it was an extra $10.
TakeBetsywithyou 