Dreaming in Technicolor

by Laura Jensen Walker

  It was times like these that I really missed Lindsey.

  More a froufrou, girly-type girl like me, she understood the importance of clothing, especially in the mating-dance ritual.

  I ended up taking Ashley shopping with me instead. She might be fourteen—but that girl can shop!

  Although I couldn’t talk Mary Jo into shopping, she did consent to come over and watch all my English-setting DVDs as part of our pretrip preparations: Sense and Sensibility, Emma, Persuasion, Howard’s End, Shakespeare in Love, Notting Hill, plus a couple of recent Shakespeare adaptations. And my latest acquisition, Calendar Girls, based on an actual group of middle-aged women in Yorkshire who posed nude for a fundraising calendar.

  When the credits rolled after that one, Mary Jo set down her microwave popcorn and snorted. “I’m not taking off my clothes for any cause, no matter how noble it is.”

  “Me either. Not to worry, MJ.”

  I’d begun calling Mary Jo “MJ” lately. For one thing, it’s shorter, which is what I told her. But it’s also a little more hip and European sounding than Mary Jo—which I didn’t tell her.

  Mary Jo—I mean MJ—in turn made me watch Becket, Anne of the Thousand Days, A Man for All Seasons, and the more recent Elizabeth, with Cate Blanchett, so I’d have at least a vague historical awareness of this land of kings and queens we’d be visiting. Actually, I didn’t mind. Those all turned out to be great films. But I was mystified when she started rereading a bunch of books by some English country vet-turned- author that she loved but I’d never heard of.

  “Exactly who is this James Herriot guy?” I asked, picking up one of her well-worn paperbacks and thumbing through it.

  MJ gave me an incredulous look. “Only the greatest writer of animal stories ever.” She smiled a little shyly. “He’s kind of my hero.”

  To educate me, she insisted I watch her DVD collection of the BBC series, All Creatures Great and Small. I found it charming . . . but a little too realistic. “Eew, what’s he doing to that cow?”

  “Checking the position of her calf. Isn’t that cool?”

  Remember. You’ll be mostly in London. Theaters, galleries, shopping.No four-footed creatures.

  I looked over at my shoe hive, where my Manolos ruled proudly. Focus on the boots. Focus on the boots.

  I hadn’t had a medical checkup in a while, so I’d decided it might be a good idea to have one before we headed over to Merrie Olde—although the real reason was to keep a nervous MJ company when she went in to get her Xanax prescription. Unfortunately, checkups invariably involve getting weighed. The bad news was . . . I’d gained five pounds over the holidays.

  This called for drastic measures.

  “That’s only seventeen,” Ashley said, holding my feet down in my apartment as I did sit-ups.

  “Nope—nineteen.” I wheezed. “I’ve been counting.”

  “Sorry, Aunt Phoebe. Only seventeen. I’ve been counting too.”

  Elizabeth agreed. “Yep. Me too. Only three more to go. C’mon, you can do it!”

  What’s that scripture again about children being a blessing from the Lord?

  The next day I tried the sit-ups routine again while baby-sitting the kids, but Lexie and Jacob jumped on me every time I got on the floor.

  So much for getting in shape.

  Besides, sit-ups won’t do much for thighs that whisper together when you walk . . .

  I did manage to squeeze in a little more of a spiritual workout late that night though. Only seven minutes’ worth, but who was keeping score? Besides, God spoke to me immediately in the words of Psalm 139: “If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.”

  With this spiritual confirmation in place, I e-mailed Cordelia, Alex’s twenty-three-year-old half sister, about our plans—asking her to keep mum. She thought the visit was a “smashing” idea. Even came up with a great way to surprise Alex.

  Always knew I’d like that girl.

  Mary Jo had been right; she wasn’t a very good flier. She took one of her three physician-prescribed Xanax, clutched the armrest in a death grip, shut her eyes, and tried to listen to her copy of Seabiscuit on tape. And when we hit a little turbulence, she squeezed her eyes shut even tighter and began murmuring the Lord’s Prayer.

  Finally! Something I’m better at than Mary Jo. I don’t believe it.

  “It’s okay, MJ.” I patted her hand with my seasoned traveler one. “This is all normal. Don’t worry. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

  I sat there praying for Mary Jo’s fears to subside. Then, when I heard her breathing deeply, I picked up my Jane Eyre. For the next eight hours or so, when I wasn’t reading about Jane and Mr. Rochester in the Gothic mansion on the Yorkshire moors or eating cardboard food or standing in line for the restroom—which involved removing my Manolos from the overhead compartment where I’d gingerly stowed them three hours into the flight and donning them for the walk down the aisle—I was flipping through the travel guide and highlighting must-see English monuments and points of interest, planning all the amazing things we’d do and see once we arrived.

  Including Alex, of course.

  I’d waited more than three months for that New Year’s kiss, and soon my wait would be over. Wonder if he’ll cup my face tenderly between his hands the first time. Or will he go straight in for a serious Rhett Butler lip-lock?

  I took a long drink of my bottled water.

  Or maybe it’ll be a John Wayne Quiet Man one. I shivered with anticipation. What a glorious, definitely-not-quiet kiss that was—in full, gorgeous Technicolor. Yes, I know it was set in Ireland, but England was right next door.

  Pushing my fantasies aside, I tried to focus on the in-flight movie instead. But after two burps, a couple of belches, and a few other bodily functions I refuse to go into—in what had been billed a romantic comedy—I yanked off my headset and watched our slow progress on the global positioning map in front of us. The tiny graphic plane on the TV screen showed we were now flying over Greenland.

  Greenland. Iceland. That whole name thing is just wrong. They need to swap them. I mean, Iceland is the one that’s all green and inhabited, and Greenland’s basically ice and isolated. Right? At least that’s what I remembered from geography—one of the few things I did remember. Whoever named them made a big mistake. Big.

  But never mind. I’m on my way to England! Land of Shakespeare, scones, and Sense and Sensibility.

  And Alex.

  Now the little graphic plane showed us flying over the Atlantic Ocean.

  On second thought, maybe I didn’t want to watch. Instead, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and thought of England.

  And Alex.

  Going through customs at Heathrow, even casual, laid-back MJ got a little fluttery over the delicious accents all around us. I thought she was going to break into a little Riverdance when she heard a cluster of Irish nuns chattering away. And we both leaned closer when an older man in a kilt began to speak to his companion in a rich Scottish brogue.

  “Shades of Sean Connery,” my friend whispered as we towed our bags toward the Heathrow Underground station. “I like it here already.”

  “Oh my gosh, MJ. Look, there’s Notting Hill Gate!” I pointed to the color-coded map of the London subway system on the station wall. “Wonder if Hugh Grant hangs around there much? And look, there’s Piccadilly Circus and Westminster and . . . Knightsbridge!”

  “What’s at Knightsbridge?”

  “Only the most famous and one of the most expensive department stores in the whole world.” I sighed with longing. “Harrods.” But my shopping lust was diverted by another stop on the map. “Charing Cross,” I whispered. “I forgot about Charing Cross.”

  Mary Jo chuckled. “What’s there? Another ritzy store?”

  “No.” My voice took on a dreamy tone. “There was this wonderful little film from the late eighties with Anthony Hopkins and Anne Bancr
oft, called 84 Charing Cross Road. All about this feisty New York bibliophile–that’s Anne Bancroft—who was searching for a hard-to-find book and discovered that a London bookstore at 84 Charing Cross Road had a copy. So she began writing to Anthony Hopkins, the British bookseller.” I sighed. “They shared this wonderful twenty-year friendship across the miles, based on their mutual love of books.

  But they never met.”

  “Sounds like my kind of action-filled movie. Okay, Ms. Lost in Movieland, think we can exercise a little action ourselves and get this show on the road?”

  I know the practical travel gurus say to bring only one small, rolling carry-on bag and a backpack, but this was my very first time in Europe and I was determined not to look like some ugly American. One small suitcase and a backpack simply hadn’t cut it.

  Especially since I was going to be seeing my Alex again soon.

  I started having second thoughts, though, as we lugged all my bags down the labyrinthine tunnels and ramps to the Underground platform and then onto the car.

  It was a good thing Mary Jo had followed the sage traveling advice. With her modest little roll-on in tow, she helped me lug my multiple bags into the nearest compartment. I sucked in my J.Lo derriere just in time as the heavy automatic doors sliced shut behind me. (Yes, I wanted to lose weight, but I knew there had to be a less painful way.)

  Now I knew how sardines felt. Multicultural, indifferent sardines. No one spoke or looked around. Most people buried their noses in books or newspapers, while others gazed above our heads in rapt fascination at the ads or the tube map showing all the different lines.

  And every time the train stopped and let people on and off, a cultured, disembodied English accent would intone over the speakers, “Mind the Gap.”

  Mary Jo, in her Wrangler jeans and sweatshirt, stared at me. “They do Gap commercials on the Underground? That store must be really popular here.”

  Two seats over from her, an acned teen with several piercings on his face sniggered. I noticed brief smiles from a couple of the more reserved passengers too, quickly hidden behind the ubiquitous newspaper.

  Then I got it. Mind the gap is like mind your step: don’t fall when you get on or off. I glanced down at my Manolos and their skinny stiletto heels and realized they could be a means to my destruction if I wasn’t careful.

  At our stop I disembarked gingerly.

  Once outside in the open air again, we shifted our luggage and began walking. And walking. And walking.

  I don’t care what Nancy Sinatra says.

  These boots are definitely not made for walking.

  [chapter eight]

  Mind the Culture Gap

  you girls are young an ’ealthy, so we’ve put you on the fourth floor. All right, then?” The pasty-faced, dentally challenged hotel desk clerk had to be at least sixty, but he handled the stairs with the energy of someone much younger.

  “Sounds great.” I didn’t care what floor I stayed on. I was in England! And my beloved Alex was somewhere nearby. Under my breath, I began humming “Get Me to the Church on Time.”

  By the third floor, though, I was singing a different tune.

  Nigel, the clerk, had taken charge of my large rolling suitcase while I followed behind with my smaller case and my cumbersome carryall, which kept banging against the wall as we made our way up the narrow, crooked staircase.

  Mary Jo was having her own difficulties. “What? The women don’t have hips over here?” she muttered behind me. “How do they make it up these dinky steps? Haven’t they ever heard of elevators?”

  Nigel only heard her last comment. “We call ’em lifts here, luv, and sorry this old ’otel ain’t got one. Good exercise though.” He turned and shot her a lascivious, buck-toothed grin. “’Elp you keep your girlish figger.”

  At the next landing I stopped, but he didn’t. “Wait a minute. I thought you said we were on the fourth floor?”

  “That you are, luv. Just one more flight to go.”

  “I know I’m bad at math,” I wheezed, “but even I can count to four—and we just passed the fourth floor.”

  “Over ’ere your first floor is our ground floor. The first floor is the next one up.”

  Behind me, I heard MJ groan.

  Finally we made it to the top—exactly fifty-nine steps. I’d counted. This had better be a room with a view. My inner Maggie Smith clicked in, complete with waspish wit and dead-on, English accent.

  Nigel opened the door with a flourish. “Right, then, ’ere you are. Anything you need, just ask. We sell bottled water at the front desk and the odd bit of Cadbury’s now and then if Mavis ain’t nicked ’em all. Lovely girl, our Mavis. Bit of a sweet tooth, though.” He gave us a jaunty wave and bounded down the steps.

  Slowly I surveyed the musty room. “Well, it’s definitely not the Ritz. But then again, at these prices it wouldn’t be.”

  Every movie I’d ever seen with stately English manor homes or Cotswold country cottages showed pretty chintz and lots of lovely floral fabric. And even though the fabrics didn’t match—which I liked; too boring otherwise—they at least had a unifying color or floral scheme to tie them all together.

  Nothing like that here.

  The carpet looked like it might have once been a thick hunter green with red cabbage roses scattered throughout, but it had been trod upon so many times over the years that it had lost all its cushion and faded to more of a grungy pea-soup color.

  But it was the bedspreads that really caught my eye. Once black with probably vivid tropical flowers—nary a rose in the bunch—they were now more of a dirty gray with pale peach birds of paradise.

  And did I mention they were polyester? And stained?

  “I think I’ll sleep in my clothes tonight,” I told my roommate.

  “You’re such a wuss.” Mary Jo dropped her backpack on the bed nearest the door. “Think of it as camping.” Her eyebrows beetled together. “Hey, check it out. The sink’s in the bedroom. That’s weird.”

  I glanced over at the chipped, dingy sink and cloudy mirror in one corner of the tiny room. “Wonder why?”

  Mary Jo opened the bathroom door. “Um, there’s no shower.”

  “Sure there is. My confirmation said ‘en suite,’ and that means shower in the room.” I peered beyond her into the cramped bathroom. No wonder the sink was in the bedroom. There was no room for anything besides the toilet and the dingy blue bathtub. “There’s the shower.” I pointed. “See, it’s one of those handheld thingies attached to the tub faucet.”

  My traveling companion eyed the narrow tub, then looked down at her not-so-narrow hips. “Great.”

  “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Besides, we won’t be in our room much—just to sleep. We’ll be busy sightseeing the rest of the time. And look, I’ll bet there’s a great view way up here.” I hurried over to the ancient orange velour curtains and flung them open, coughing at the puffs of dust that filled the air.

  And what a view it was. Oy. A lovely cityscape featuring the dirty rooftops of commercial buildings, enhanced by the encrusted grime on the window glass. But wait—what was that? I squinted at a majestic building off in the distance. Could it be Buckingham Palace maybe? Or the Tower of London?

  My grumpiness disappeared in a New York minute. I looked at my watch. “It’s only four twenty.” I grabbed my purse and travel journal. “We can unpack later. Let’s go exploring!”

  We’d decided to play our whole trip by ear. No tours for us. I was a journalist, after all. My job depended upon my ability to explore brave new worlds, search out hard-to-find information, and go where no Barley girl had ever gone before.

  “Oh my gosh, Mary Jo,” I said. (I kept forgetting to call her MJ). “I think that’s Buckingham Palace!”

  And no, it wasn’t what I’d seen through the window. That had turned out to be just another hotel, albeit a much grander and more expensive one than our meager lodgings.

  But this—it certainly looked like the real thing.
r />   We’d taken the tube to Victoria Station—a stop whose name I recognized from countless movies—and begun wandering through the city, passing by countless shops and pubs, restaurants, and yes, Starbucks. They were everywhere, just like in Cleveland. But then we’d turned a corner and found ourselves face-to-face with an imposing building surrounded by high iron fencing.

  Could that really be where the queen lives? Right here in the middle of everything?

  I’d always figured it would be off somewhere all by itself and totally inaccessible. The inaccessible part was right; the tall gates were locked, and I thought I saw guards in the distance, closer to the building. But in front of the main locked gate stood a majestic statue of Queen Victoria seated on the throne with a gold angel—we’re talking major gold here—above her.

  Amazing.

  MJ looked up. “It must be the palace,” she said. “The sign says Buckingham Palace Road.” Unlike Lindsey, my Barley best friend isn’t usually a squealer. But she looked across at the famous palace, then at me, and we both squealed in tandem, and then pulled out our cameras.

  “Look. The flag’s flying. That means the Queen’s in.” I shook my head. “To think that the sovereign of England is this close—maybe playing with her Corgis or having tea with her son.” I gave MJ a telling look. “Or maybe even her hottie grandsons.”

  She sighed. “That William is sure yummy looking. Too bad he’s so young.”

  We set out to explore the neighborhood, meandering through green parks and streets with such la-di-dah names as Grosvenor Place and Belgrave Square. Passing the beautiful white-fronted rows of upscale homes with striking doors in rich jewel colors—emerald green, ruby red, sapphire blue, and gleaming onyx, usually flanked by hanging baskets of flowers—I started to feel all Gwyneth Paltrow-ish—minus the thin thighs, rocker husband, and produce-named daughter.

  I could live here. Easily. Behind a house with a blue door, like Hugh Grant in Notting Hill. Or at least commute between here and the States.