Below is our British Airways plane readying for the journey across the Pond. Don't you hate when people say, "Across the Pond?"
I took the photo b/c it reminded me when I used to send my kids off to see their dad in Texas.
Below: the inside of a shuttle bus from Heathrow Airport.
Did I hear you say Heathrow? Yes, Little Ruthie has been in Heathrow Airport. Unlike in Philadelphia, public transportation is clean and well-kept.
Is it b/c Britishers have more respect for their trains?
From Wiki: Mark Padmore is a British tenor appearing in concerts, recitals, and opera. Born in London 8 March 1961, and raised in Canterbury, Kent in England. Wikipedia
Vicki Mortimer is a noted costume designer and stage designer. And what a great mum and great hostess!
Sadly, altho she tried to be very careful, her earrings disappeared. Probly at the Padmores. I told them, if you find em, keep them.
The what river?
Oh, take my picture by the Thames, will you please?
Gee, I wonder if Christopher Robin did things like this.
Of course, he did, Ruthie. I used to read AA Milne's poetry to my kids and liked it much better than Winnie the Pooh, which I only read recently as an adult. May we say 'young adult' tho I'll be 68 in December.
Yes, I know, I know. We wanted to remain unhurried. And we pretty much took our time. Except, of course, when we had reservations at a fine restaurant and, of course, the thea-tah!
The Somerset House, the last of the Tudor palaces.
Trafalgar Square, but we can pretend it is.
Guess who saw The Rosetta Stone?
"Brilliant," said Chris, when I told him Sarah donated her kidney to me.
Hold on a sec. Lemme check to make sure it's still in there.
Ouch! They must sense the house has a couple of Americans loose.
Paris here we come.
I mailed my back doctor, Guy Lee, a postcard telling him that w/o my operation for sciatica, I could never have climbed up the hundred or so stairs to the top.
The church was built on the highest point in Paris.
When the waiter plopped it down in front of me, I said, But I didn't order steak. I ordered duck.
It IS duck, he said.
It was very tough.
Where are we eating?
What are we eating?
And, who are we?
Please send email if you know.
CLIMBING THE STAIRWAY TO LE SACRE COEUR
Like the cross on Golgotha
will I get there in time?
it’s a short life, you know,
and I'm not so young anymore
if the sky has eyes
it would watch me
mount the stairs
my breath coming in gasps
my beating heart –
it pondered blindly in my mother’s womb -
I hold the cold cold rail
and walk over
smashed water bottles
and the scourge of the French:
their smoked-out cigarettes
My black boots grimed with
what’s fallen on the Paris sidewalks
and the stairway of the Hotel Joyce
a pawn to no one
not even Hemingway
Gertrude Stein and the
new ways of seeing
in this ancient city
which chose to let
Nazis roam free
rather than devastate
their Mona Lisa
A Jew, like Jesus,
I climb higher staring
at the sanctuary where
I will shortly gain entrance
I pause to rest
my daughter beside me
we lean over the railing
at the highest point in the city
a handsome cleanshaved
Muslim asks if we are
As we nod, he cries "Obama"
and high-fives our hands
olive skin touching beige
we bid him goodbye and
return to the stairs
the endless stairs of
Le Sacre Coeur,
a decade older than my ninety-one year old mother,
who arrived here in her thirties,
not finished having children,
not knowing that her firstborn
would climb the stairs
on her behalf
the stairs of
Le Sacre Coeur in