UK03 – Saturday/Sunday, 8-9 Feb 03

The other four were heading off later in the day on a Northwest flight, by way of Minneapolis (of course), to Gatwick in London. Not us. To go east, we had to first go west.

That’s because both of our sets of parents live in California, and they’d bravely volunteered to timeshare Katherine whilst we were in Old Blighty. So we were taking a Frontier flight from Denver to LAX, passing off Katherine like a football, then hopping an American non-stop to Heathrow.

The hand-off was a bit more complex, of course, especially since we had a five hour layover (no worries – I’d much rather have a layover that’s too long than one that’s too short, especially with international flights). We had enough time, actually, that when both the Hills and Kleerups greeted us, we were able to all drive over to Margie’s brother’s house for dinner

Good food and drink ensued, as well as amusement at the three cousins playing (and bickering).

Eventually it was time to go, and we got dropped off back at LAX. We made our way through security, and plopped down in the terminal, thence to our 777. We were back in the 20s, off by the starboard window. It was nice that we were in a “two,” but being on the starboard side meant that the sun (once it rose) was in our eyes. Plus, we were directly over the mongo-sized wing, which meant we really couldn’t see much, anyway. Plus there was a funny metal box under the seat against the hull on all of the window seats, which took up half the floor space.

(On the way back, we would be in exactly the same seats, only on the port side – so we also got the sun shining in.)

The way out was mostly a night flight, which meant fitful snoozing, punctuated by reading. Didn’t feel like watching any of the movies, though we caught an episode of The Vicar of Dibley that was, as always, fun.

It was strange, getting on and off the plane. No cell phone (but plenty of pats to the belt where it should have been). And no brief case with computer. It kept feeling like we were forgetting something.

We landed in Heathrow in the early afternoon, GMT. We made our way through an efficient customs department, picked up our bags, and went through the “customs gauntlet,” a medium-sized room with customs agents lounging on either side, scooping us out, just waiting to pounce on anyone who looked suspicious.

Well, that got is into the lobby. Now to find the cell phone hire place I’d contacted via the Internet a month or two back.

We made our way over to Terminal 2, and I left Margie behind with the luggage cart while I scooted around, trying to find the cell phone shop. The place was cramped and something of a madhouse of travellers and baggage rumbling back and forth, but after three or four tries, I found it.

I note, based on two samples (my experience and Doyce’s) that cell phone hire is nobody’s main line of business, that it’s done third party via cell phone sale shops, and that you have to actually ask if they rent cell phones. I mean, sure, a company that sells cell phones might want to act as just an agent for a cell phone rental firm, but you’d think that, in the middle of Heathrow (or Victoria Station, for that matter), they’d at least have a sign that says, “Travellers! Rent cell phones here!”

That introduced the next element of the little comic opera. We filled out all the paperwork, and I handed over my credit card. He ran it. “Sorry, sir. They’ve denied it.”

“Did they give a reason?”

“No, just denied.” I could see him eyeing me as some sort of potential scam artist.

Hrm.

I mean, there was plenty of balance on the card, I’d just paid my bills, all should be right as rain. And I was a bit more worried, since that was the card I’d planned on using to rent the car (being a Platinum MC, it provided the basic car rental insurance that was required).

But, that’s okay, right? I mean, I brought along three credit cards, just in case there were troubles. I pulled out another card that I’d pulled out of storage — one that we were carrying a balance on until some months ago, from transfers, but which I never actually use for purchases.

Um. Wrong card. That’s the crisp, unused, expired-last-November version. He handed it back to me.

Okay … how about this one? AT&T credit card, also brought along in case we needed it to make phone calls on.

Just like a hockey game, it came back “Denied.” Although this time there was a message saying that I, the card holder, should call.

In retrospect, I’m pretty sure I know what was happening. Credit card charge from a foreign country raises red flag. And they’re both charging against it and reserving £200 (in case I run of with the phone or run up a huge tab — SOP, though I could see the guy expecting that was just what was going to happen in my case). More red flags.

“Okay, let me go call them.”

“Right. I’ll just hold onto the paperwork over here, for when you come back.”

How politely optimistic of him.

I ran back downstairs, little dark clouds fuming out of my ears. I explained in clipped tones to Margie the sitch, and got from her the MCI calling card she’d purchased at CostCo back home. It had international access, too, so I figured we could resolve this real quickly.

We had cash, of course, having hit the money wall the first thing out of customs, but the calling card was the way to go, right?

Card #1 — no international number on the back of it for customer service, but a nice 800 number. But generally speaking, you can’t call 800 numbers from outside the US (since the number holder pays for all tolls on such a call). And the MCI Calling Card system confirmed that.

Okay, Card #2 is right out, since it’s expired. How about Card #3? Aha! Both an 800 customer service number and a non-toll-free number. I give them a call, wending my way through the lengthy international number MCI gives me, the MCI system code to use, pressing 1 for English, then the card PIN number. I mean, I’m dialing 22 numbers in four clusters here, with unskippable prompts in-between. And still fuming, of course.

And fuming more when it turns out that non-toll customer service number is no longer valid.

Rivets are popping out of my neck by this time, so Margie suggests we go upstairs together. We wheel our way up to the phone hire place, and Margie offers her card.

Now, this card is the same issuer (but a different account) from Card #1.

And it is accepted with no trouble.

*sigh*

(I later tried my Card #1 at a bookstore, with no problem. And I used it throughout the rest of the trip, including for the B&Bs and the car hire. No sweat. Weird.)

We ended up with a nice little Nokia phone, which was our constant companion during the trip, both for calling home (which we did every couple of days, though we only got Kitten on the phone once or twice) and (once Doyce rented one the next day) for coordinating group activities. Almost can’t imagine not having it, to be honest.

We took the Tube from Heathrow (after walking through endless underground tunnels to Terminal 1) to Victoria Station (henceforth Vic Stn). It required a transfer midway along, at a station that, alas, was only stairs from one platform to another. Annoying. The trip took about an hour, but only cost £3.60 each, so it was a good deal.

We got out at Vic Stn, oohing and aahing with bleary eyes, then oriented ourselves on the map, and headed for the B&B.

We were staying at Woodville House, a small residential (row house) B&B a few blocks from Vic Stn. We eventually found it, discovered the others had indeed arrived as plans, exchanged hugs, and went up and unpacked.

Woodbury House is clean, efficient, moderately ambient, not luxurious by any means, but not just a place to doss, either. Doyce and Jackie were in the basement room, with both a queen bed and two bunk beds, and with the adjoining kitchen (so that’s where we usually gathered in the evenings for games and the like). DaveG and Lori were way up on the 4th floor. We were on the 2nd floor, in a little room with a bed, a sink, a dresser, a tiny closet, a chandelier, a fireplace (with a gas heater in it), and a small TV. Bathrooms were out in the stairwell, which usually wasn’t too much of a problem. Yeah, it’s nice to stumble out of bed and be able to stagger to the WC without having to put on a robe, but for a few days it wasn’t a huge hardship.

I can’t say that Woodbury House is the most faboo accommodations we’ve ever stayed in, but I’ve stayed in far worse, and it was clean, pretty well heated, and breakfast was good. And the location, by Vic Stn, was excellent. I’d be willing to stay there again, by all means.

Doyce was already (still, some more) planning out various London activities. Jackie chided him over it, that there was no way that we would be able to see all the things he was writing down. But, I noted, at least this way we’ll know what we’ve missed.

Only Doyce seemed to get it.

The rest of the party’d had time to do a bit of walking about – Buckingham Palace, etc. – and had spotted a place for us to eat: the Duke of York, just by Vic Stn. We adjourned there anon, choosing to eat in the restaurant on the second floor (smoke-free) rather than the first floor pub. The food was okay, the beer selection so-so, the service not all that swell, but it was nice to be there, nice to be with the others, and we enjoyed ourselves.

Enough so that we decided to walk around London at night a bit. We Tubed over to Embankment Station and went out onto same, walking along the Thames to the (generally) east, trying to figure out building names and marveling at this and that (including the bomb-pocked Cleopatra’s Needle). We eventually turned inland, to walk around St. Paul’s Cathedral, oohing and aahing. It was as close as we ever got back to it, unfortunately.

Everyone was getting tired and footsore by this point, so we tried to find a Tube station. Surprise – the closure of the Central line for safety reasons meant that we had to hike quite a ways. Eventually, though, we made it back to the B&B intact, all of us quite ready for a jet-lagged sleep.

UPDATE: For the Doyce version of these events, click here.
UPDATE: For pictures related to this post, see here.