Time For Tea_world

Time For Tea

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I awoke this Saturday morning to a soft, cool rain. A rain that touches rather than pelts whatever it lands on, and sounds like sweet, tinkling drops. Ever have a day that begins so pristine and perfect that you\'re loath to even speak out loud, for fear of shattering it? That was today.

Somehow, in spite of all the best-laid plans I had made for the day - plans that included a trip to a flower and garden show, the spacious new library downtown to pick up a specially-ordered clutch of delicious books, and perhaps a sip of something warm and rich across the street at the RiverMarket, and then a peek into an antique shops I sat quietly listening to faint strains of classical music and sipping my first cup of tea of the early morning, I instinctively knew none of those plans were going to come to fruition today. Instead, I would spend it quiet, reflective. No television I was going to allow myself today, save it being comprised of watching (for the umpteenth time) "Tess of the D\'Urbervilles", "Sense and Sensibility", "Far From the Madding Crowd", or "Enchanted April", all films gorgeously made in England, Italy and France.

As I keep a reading tray of the newest issues of Southern Living, National Geographic, and Victoria magazines under my bed, complete with bookmarks and highlighter pens at the ready, I pulled out my new issue of Victoria and, with my cup of tea, violin music playing and the rain softly falling on this quiet morn, I immersed myself in page after page of roses, old plates ,vintage lace linens and sumptious gardens. As I did so, remembrances came to mind.....little isolated and delicious snippets from three past trips to England...

It was on an early Saturday morning just such as this five years ago almost to the day that my then 13 year-old daughter and I were awakening in a quaint London hotel. As I peered out the hotel window I watched the endless bevy of black taxis and the men and women in their heavy raincoats scurrying down the wide sidewalks, intent on their errands. Somehow being immersed in that atmosphere made us feel like a part of the English citizenry and not mere visitors.

Later my daughter and I walked in the rain to the Courtauld Institute to see our very first real van Gogh. On the way there we had to climb a steep street and to this day we giggle as we reminisce over a worn-out bicycle someone had propped against a doorstep. The word "melted" came to both our minds at the sight of its warped frame and wavy tires.

Once in the Institute, dutifully watched over by elderly gentlemen speaking in hushed tones in their immaculate navy suits, I broke all protocol by tentatively touching one finger to the actual canvas of a real van Gogh, this time that wasn\'t on the pages of yet another art book. I simply couldn\'t resist it. I had to be able to taste that tormented yellow pigment with my fingers as well as my eyes. I wasn\'t disappointed. One could sense the brushstrokes, the direction complex Vincent\'s hand took as he created his famous sways and curves with color.

That evening we had reservations for a walking tour of the infamous east end of London; the Whitechapel district. We huddled down deep into our coats. Now, this was the London of the movies, with its classic fog and mist that faintly tastes of winter air and yet car exhaust at the same time. At one point our group stood under a struggling gas light on Puma Lane, more a paved alleyway than a real street. This Victorian-era lamp shone a thick, ivory-colored light upon expectant faces in our small gathering as we listened to the retelling of the dark history of that area of London. It turned out the antique appearance of the street lamp we were standing underneath wasn\'t merely for show. It was the genuine article placed there, among many others, long ago in 1888 by a frantic city to help deter the crimes committed by Jack the Ripper in that very neighborhood. The shivers that ran through us on that dark night standing mere yards from where several of his victims were discovered were not just from the damp cold.

On the tour bus as we rode past the elegant Mayfair district and later past Kensington Palace, we could see lights on throughout the upper floors of the Palace. I idly wondered if Princess Diana was behind one of those windows, as this was where she had called home.

At midnight after our walking tour was complete we tore down the street in a blind rain and wind so fierce that it rendered mere paper of our umbrellas. We hurriedly bought chocolate milk and Ritz crackers at a tiny shop. Minutes later we were safely back in our toasty hotel room in flannel and blankets watching the BBC, sipping milk and munching on vaguely soggy crackers. It felt like we lived there and it was a happy feeling. I remember the hotel desk calling our room and my distinct double-take as the chirpy man on the other end asked, "And what time in the morning would you like to be knocked up then, mum?" It took a beat for me to remember he was merely inquiring the time for our wake-up call the next morning!

...I clearly recall the month I spent in Europe alone in 1998, and the wonderful people I met. The British have a corner on the market when it comes to warmth and hospitality. It\'s nothing for them to scoot over in their McDonald\'s booth and invite you to join their family if you should find yourself with nowhere to sit. Thirty minutes later you are fast friends and are familiar with the names of both their children and dogs. Ask an American to do the same and they\'ll start proselytizing about their "rights" and invasion of privacy.

On those many train rides from village to village I experienced tidbits of England merely from gazing through the grime-streaked and clattering windows. Swans glide in a dignified manner down their rivers and streams like our ducks do back at home. In fields where we would see cattle they have sheep. Often you will see a lone distinguished gentleman in herringbone tweed jacket, knee-high leather boots, walking stick and ever-present dog, walking ("rambling") cross-country. And everywhere is green, green; masses of green fields. Daffodils and pansies seem to bloom earlier than they do at home, and are everywhere. They\'re tucked into heavy black cast iron kettles on the front stoops of tiny cottages, masses of them are carefully planted into window boxes. It seems virtually all of the windows are adorned with white lace curtains and everyone has at least one rose bush of some size. They have tiny, almost non-existent front yards but those yards are called "gardens" by the British.

I spent one bitterly cold evening walking around Pinner, Middlesex, about a twenty-minute train ride northwest of London, and stopped into a small restaurant for a sandwich. As I sat there alone eating, I quietly listened to a mother and young daughter sitting nearby. The mother explained they needed to "eat up" quickly as they had a council meeting to attend. I mused about what their names might be, what their home looked like, what they would talk about in this anomaly called a "council meeting". I realized that I would never see them again....that I was walking through for a few seconds or moments at a time the outer perimeters of the lives of these British people and

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