Tea and Cake

Before our London trip, Leanne showed me a couple sneak preview pictures of an old train station/hotel that serves proper English afternoon tea. I so wanted to try it, so she arranged for us to go there.

 

It was fancy, to say the least! The building is a magnificent red color.

 

 

 

The lady showed us in to our reserved table, the dishes and menus set out and ready with a high-backed armchairs for us to perch in. We were getting seriously royal treatment.

 

The price on the menu, however, was also royal, so we sheepishly asked could we please have just a pot of tea and some cake instead of the £35 4-course affair.

"You don't want afternoon tea, then?" she asked, and then politely requested that we move to a different table. We gathered up our bags and shifted, like servants caught sitting on the Queen's furniture.

Still, even the demoted tea was absolute fancyness. We chose our cakes from a table laden with artistic pastries in glass covers.

 

I felt myself sit up straighter when our trays were delivered. I felt like I needed to take tiny bites and clear my throat quietly and not sneeze too loudly. (Of course, I ended up nearly dropping my fork on the floor)

The building, the cherry tart, and the steaming cups of tea were lovely, and I'm glad I got to simulate an hour living like an aristocrat, but I think I am quite content to drink tea from a mug and be a commoner for the rest of my life.

 

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Home for the Holiday

Pooh is a well-traveled teddy.

 

By some miracle, I packed all my belongings, dragged all 3 bags down the 65 hostel stairs, from Bayswater Station (thank you kind strangers who helped me up the Tube stairs!) to Victoria Rail Station, onto a second National Express Coach because I missed the first one, and to the correct terminal in Heathrow. My plane from Heathrow arrived half an hour late to Heuston because of weather, and my connecting flight was cancelled. I caught the 19:15 as a standby.

Needless to say, I fell asleep in the car on the way back to Tahlequah.

Emptying out my wallet.

I already miss the UK and Ireland–the people, the sounds, the tea and kettles, the bug-less-ness, the eye-bogglingly gorgeous scenery, the fresh markets, the good shopping, the public transport. It's strange being back.

 

My brain knows I'm here for a reason. It also knows how pleased I am to be with my fam again, to see my friends, to be welcomed home by my church family. I was back in time to celebrate the Fourth of July, and I'm here for Ken's birthday.

 

My heart will catch up to my head (pardon the melodrama). I will stop whinging (great British word). I will be thankful for the good life I have here and for my six-month dream.

And if it's part of the Grand Scheme, I will go back!

 

 

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