Sisterchicks Go Brit! (15 page)

The streets were wide, the traffic was heavy, and on the sidewalks people were coming and going with purposeful strides. The buildings were a mix of old and new. Our driver zipped down and around a tangle of short streets in a residential area where huge trees lined up in a strip of grassy space that ran down the middle of the street. All the trees looked as if the millions of buds on their curving branches were about to burst open like popcorn and cover the naked winter limbs with an opulent show of white and pink pompoms.

“Doesn’t this street feel like a scene from Dickens’s
Oliver Twist
?” I asked.

“It’s the Georgian-style architecture,” Kellie said.

“Do you remember the film version of
Oliver
?”

“I think so.”

“A scene takes place on a street just like this. Oliver opens the window at his grandfather’s home, and a variety of peddlers start singing, ‘Who will buy—’ ”

“Oh, look!” Kellie interrupted. We had turned onto a main thoroughfare, and red double-decker buses were motoring down both sides of the road. I had made sure my camera was in my jacket pocket, and I quickly pulled it out and snapped away.

“I didn’t put the buses on our list,” I said. “But we definitely need to ride a double-decker. Let’s be sure to add that one.”

“Got it.” Kellie reached for the condensed list and pulled out her pen. “I thought of something else too.”

“What’s that?”

“Tea. We didn’t put down to have tea someplace special, but I think it would be just lovely, don’t you?”

A broad smile spread across my face. A Cheshire cat grin.

“What? Why are you smiling like that?”

“I’m smiling because I think going someplace special for tea is a wonderful idea.” I attempted my best upper-class British accent. “Oh, yes, I can see it now: Lady Ebb and Lady Flo taking tea at the Ritz. How posh.”

“Are you mocking my idea?”

“No, not at all. I love the idea of having tea at some extra special place. As a matter of fact, I love the idea so much that I have a little surprise for you.”

Kellie gave me a wary look.

“It’s a good surprise. When I was researching possible things
to do, I had a feeling we would want to experience something swanky here in London. So I went online and booked a reservation for us to have tea at the Ritz Hotel. I thought it could be my early birthday present for you.”

Kellie seemed as stunned and pleased as I had hoped she would. “Oh, Lizzie, I love it! Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Several of the travel sites I checked recommended the Ritz Hotel but said their tea reservations book up months ahead. I was pretty excited that I was able to get a reservation for the only day they had open.”

“What day?”

“Thursday.”

“That’s tomorrow!” Kellie glanced again at our roughly sketched-out schedule.

“I know. I’ve been trying to think of how to tell you. I wanted it to be a surprise. An early birthday treat you’ll never forget.”

“Believe me, I’ll never forget any of this. How about if I act surprised once we show up at the tearoom?” She pulled out her pen. “Now, what time are the reservations?”

“Three o’clock.”

Kellie looked up. “That seems a little early for tea. We’ve been imbibing closer to four o’clock.”

“I know. Like I said, I was glad to get what I could.”

“And I appreciate it. Tea at the Ritz. This is going to be so fun.”

Our taxi driver turned into a circular driveway of a white Victorian-style building. It looked as if we were pulling into a
grand museum entrance or a mansion. He stopped the cab, and I reached for Kellie’s arm. “This is it? This is our hotel? We’re staying here?”

“It’s even better than all the pictures we looked at online.”

“Kellie, this is way beyond what I had hoped for.”

She didn’t respond at the moment because she was busy settling the cab fare with our driver. The man hadn’t said one word to us until now when he asked if Kellie needed a receipt. Actually, it had been refreshing to have a driver who didn’t say a word after all the assistance we had received from our Oxford cab driver.

A bellman in a navy blue double-breasted uniform opened the cab door and greeted us. He was wearing a small pillbox-style hat with an elastic strap under his chin. In any other setting it would have looked odd. Here, it fit. All of it. The black taxicab, the uniformed bellman with the funny little hat, even the red carpet that beckoned us to follow it through revolving doors into a spacious hotel lobby.

The clerks at the front desk wore matching navy blue double-breasted jackets but no hats. Our receptionist was pleasant and helpful but a little confused when the reservation showed up as being cancelled for two nights in a row. As Kellie and I felt an oh-no cloud come over us, the supervisor showed the clerk how to bring up the adjusted reservation dates. Clearly the young woman was in training. I wondered how many young people came to London to work in an internship position like this at a nice hotel.

We were presented with two room keys slipped inside a folded card. Breakfast was complimentary, either downstairs in the restaurant or from the room service menu. The porter would deliver our luggage momentarily. If we would like to enjoy complimentary tea in the conservatory, we were welcome.

Kellie and I nodded “yes, thank you” to all the delicious invitations and then stepped away.

I was choked up. “Kellie, this is the nicest hotel I’ve ever stayed in. Tell your kind hubby thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“You can tell him yourself if you like. I was thinking we should call home and check in tonight. What do you think?”

“Great idea.” We both had called our first night at Rose’s before going to bed. All was well with both Roger and Martin, and we had told them we would try to call again later in the week.

“But first, shall we have ourselves a cuppa?” Kellie used the term for a cup of tea that we had heard Opal use.

We seated ourselves in the opulently decorated conservatory area and were served steaming tea in individual-sized shiny silver pots. In front of us was placed a plate loaded with a selection of shortbread biscuits—cookies, to us—in various shapes. We loved the way they melted on our tongues.

Kellie and I sipped ourselves into happy oblivion. With sweetened up and seriously sloshing bellies, we found our way to our room, politely arguing all the way as to who got to use the bathroom facilities first.

Kellie backed down and let me go first after I whispered in the elevator that I had had my share of embarrassing moments for one day. She opened the door of our room, and we saw that our luggage had been delivered. I dashed into the modernized bathroom and was impressed with the luxurious-looking bathtub, the inset lighting, plush towels, and a generous assortment of toiletries on the marble counter.

Once Kellie and I were both standing in the middle of our room selecting beds, she said she was surprised that our room was so small, given the immensity of the lobby and conservatory. I thought the room was extravagant, but then my tastes and experiences in hotel rooms were more limited than Kellie’s.

“I think this is fantastic.” I opened the beautiful armoire and folded the doors back to reveal a television as well as a pullout tray with a hot pot and all the makings for tea. “If we need another cuppa, it looks like we have all the necessities right here.”

Kellie walked over to the thick drapes, and with a “Ta-da!” she dramatically opened them. We both laughed. Our window faced an old wall that was dripping with moss. It was quaint having something so green growing right outside our window. The view certainly was unique.

“I think we’ll keep the curtains closed,” Kellie said. “What do you think?”

“Good idea.” With that I flopped on the bed and smiled. We were in London at last.

I
liked our room.
I didn’t mind not having a view. I thought the setup was perfect for us in every way. “So what do you want to do first?”

“Are you hungry?” Kellie asked.

“Are you kidding? Not after the two cups of tea we just had in the lobby and how many cookies did we eat?”

“Only five or six.”

“Seven or eight, you mean.”

“Hey, we’re on vacation, Liz. Seven and eight are vacation numbers. They don’t mean the same thing in foreign countries as they do at home. Time is different here, so why can’t numbers be different too?”

I laughed. “So are you saying that eight cookies in England are equal to …”

“Two cookies of a similar kind in America,” Kellie concluded.

“I like your logic.”

“It’s simple conversion, you know, like the way we have to convert the British pound into what it equals in U.S. dollars.”

“We could call it ‘travel math,’ ” I suggested.

“Hey, I like that! We should make up a chart. Such-and-such number in England is really equal to this number in the United States. And it will, of course, always be a lower number, like the difference between gallons and liters.”

“Why not? Who needs the metric system? We have our own system. Travel math!”

Kellie and I got going, as we often did, and tried to out-pun each other with our new inside joke about reassigning the value of all calories with our travel math. The theory that eight tea biscuits equaled one Oreo gave us our first standard of measurement.

“You know”—I reached for my collection of travel info—“I’m not sure I printed it out, but while I was doing research, I found a chart online that said how to figure out your weight in the British system.”

“It’s not the same as our scales with pounds?”

“No, pounds is their money, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right. So how do they weigh things?”

“In stones.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. I think the ratio is something like fourteen U.S. pounds on a weight scale is equal to one stone.”

“Really? I could live with that.”

“The drawback is that the shoe sizes start in the thirties and go up. I calculated my size before we came, and I wear a size forty shoe.”

Kellie laughed. “So you’re saying that with our travel math you weigh about eleven stone, and yet your feet won’t fit into anything less than a forty shoe.”

“You got it.” In my best Ebb-and-Flo voice, I put on a little show for Kellie using my two hands as puppets. “ ‘Good day, Lady Flo. How’s your weight today?’ ‘Oh, Lady Ebb, I’m up to eleven today after that last biscuit.’ ‘Eleven, you say? That’s a lovely number, don’t you think?’ ‘Oh, not at all. I’m trying to get down to ten and half so I don’t rip out the backside of my pants.’ ‘Oh, Lady Flo, you’re such a kidder. That would never happen to you!’ ”

Kellie rolled over on her back on the bed and let out all her pent-up giggles. “Liz, you’re such a good sport. I wish I had taken a picture of you walking around with those daisies on your behind!”

“They weren’t daisies, and I wouldn’t be speaking to you if you had taken a picture.” I was trying to come across as indignant, but my efforts dissolved as soon as I remembered her “I see London” and “Duct, duct” jokes. My first chuckle was followed by a rush of giggles and guffaws that were egged on by Kellie laughing so hard she had to make another quick dash to the bathroom.

She called out, “Did you see this bathtub?”

“I know. It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”

“I’m going to take a bath.”

“Good for you. I’m going to unpack.” I could hear the water running as I pulled my clothes from my suitcase and placed them in the bottom drawer of the armoire. At the bottom of the suitcase was a travel-size Bible I had borrowed from Roger. He liked to take this Bible with him on the days he ushered because he could fit it in his pocket and keep both arms free for shaking hands and greeting people.

I paused and smiled, thinking of my Roger and how he loved ushering and greeting. I loved that he had found a place to serve at church for all these years.

I needed a place to serve. I didn’t know what that would be, but it was time to give that serious consideration.

Taking Roger’s Bible with me over to the corner of the room, I sank into the overstuffed chair and put my feet up on the hassock. In my familiar “hunt and gather” fashion, I went looking for the verse in Jeremiah I had read in the Exeter chapel.

“I will give them hearts that will recognize me as the L
ORD
. They will be my people, and I will be their God, for they will return to me wholeheartedly.”

The first part of the verse caught my attention. “Hearts that will recognize me as the L
ORD.”

Copying the verse into my travel journal, I wondered if my heart truly recognized God as Lord. I had been saying that He was the One leading us on this trip. He was our true tour director. Was that another way of saying I recognized His hand in life’s events? That He really was the Lord of this trip, of my whole life?
From the moment I had blown out the candles on my fifteenth birthday to this moment in a luxurious hotel with a moss-covered wall outside the window, did God know and see and plan all of it?

If so, then I had to ask why. Why would God care about the wishes of a fifteen-year-old girl? Why would He be so kind as to fulfill such a wish?