In which we fly a long way, then a longer way, then we drive a short-ish way, meet some old friends, and walk a ways. Hey, why not make the most of your first day, right?

Our flights to the UK were courtesy of Delta, who flew us uneventfully to Newark, NJ. Fortunately, we never had to leave the airport. Unfortunately, despite our reassurances to our daughter as experienced travelers, that no, we would not have to spend time clearing security again, we did in fact have to spend time clearing security again. The experienced traveler in me smacked the experienced traveler in me for not remembering that switching carriers on an international trip would require crossing terminal lines. So security line number two was enjoyed by all, including the bit where snacks are now in the same category as electronics and should be removed from the bag, particularly the fortunately non-explosive containing chocolate bars. Good thing we didn’t pack the pop rocks.

All this was because the transatlantic portion of the trip was provided by Virgin Atlantic. My first time! And I’m just going to leave that right there. And I have to say that I really enjoyed it. The flight, dammit, the flight!

The Airbus 330 is a massive plane, but there were fewer folks on board than I expected. Per our head attendant, we had 259 passengers, 5 babies, 10 cabin crew, the 2 pilots. The partridge was unwilling to leave its tree. I know where the rest of the space went. Not the bar (yes, the bar) in the middle of the plane, right next to the door that everyone who doesn’t have bar privileges has to enter through, looking longingly at the pre-poured bubbly for the those in the front half of the plane. No, the bar didn’t take up that much space. What took the space were the cubbies in the front half of the plane. Individual, private cubbies, with chairs that fully recline, personal entertainment systems, and full access to the aforementioned bar. Gits.


Image courtesy theflight.info

We were not in the cubbies. Take our three air fares, combine ‘em and, I suspect, double ‘em, and we might get one of the cubbies to share. No, we were right at the back of the plane, which had one characteristic I’d never noticed before: I do believe that it wagged. There seemed to be a definite lateral flex in the fuselage, really only noticeable on takeoff and when increasing altitude. The air was calm, no real turbulence, and the plane was pretty damned solid. But I swear that I felt shaken (not stirred). I’ll have to look that one up.

The flight was short, being just a strictly Atlantic trans-Atlantic flight, so a mere 6 ½ hours. The cabin crew were friendly, the passengers well behaved, and the weather kept things nice and calm. But what I really appreciated was the full service, including dinner with wine, and a small breakfast (a mere 4 hours later), all of which was included. You know, like it used to be on all trans-Atlantic crossings. I miss the old days… (hashtag old fart).

We arrived in London without incident, made it through immigration without incident (they let me back in, bwa ha ha ha ha hah!), and through customs without incident. Huzzah! First order of business was to get ourselves a couple of SIM cards for our phones. As anyone who bothered to read my posts from last year might remember, I’d bought a British phone and pay-as-you-go SIM last year, specifically to have a phone ready to go any time I head back to the old country. Welllll, turns out that you need to either use the SIM or feed it some dosh every five or six months. If you don’t, the SIM expires and they reclaim the number. So my old SIM was DBA (dead before arrival). Mija’s jPhone is unlocked, so she also got a Brit-SIM, just so that we had an easy way to talk to each other, If/when separated. Interestingly, that whole process took longer than buying the phone and setting it up did in the first place. So, you know, about 10 mins. And forty quid. Sorted.

I took a minute to freshen up, then we caught the shuttle to the rental car place. The two gents staffing the van had a great time ribbing the Brits about their permanent dissatisfaction with the weather, and their complete inability to handle the heat properly. Being from South Africa, they loved it, and knew better than to run outside half-naked to crisp themselves in the sun every time the temperatures hit 80F (26C), subsequently hospitalizing themselves, the way that half the population of Britain does.

Right, rental car. I got a good deal on a mid-size, which would handle our luggage far better than our usual economy. I’d love to say that we pack light. Really, I’d love to. But we don’t. And we’ll spend a lot of time in this vehicle, so not having to balance suitcases in the spare back seat would be a definite plus for all, and less of a crushing hazard for the wean. I’m  asked the usual questions by the rental car agent: wanna spend £13 per day on a second driver (nope, my maths tells me that that would double the price of the rental); wanna spend £13 per day on navigation (nope, the maths still tells me that that would double the price); wanna upgrade to something nicer for £15 per day that includes navigation (nope, because I haven’t gone senile in the past 30 seconds and can therefore still do maths). They weren’t pressure questions, more along the lines of “I have to ask these because every so often a sucker comes along and also my manager is watching.” Kindof like those poor buggers at Best Buy checkouts who have to offer you the $60 insurance on the $20 DVD player, knowing that if you really cared that much, you’d have bough

t two more players as spares and still saved yourself $40 on the deal. So I hold no animosity and answer the questions as cheerfully as my bleary, barely-slept self can manage. This seems to be appreciated as our rep takes us out to the lot and says “Let’s see what the nicest car is that we have in your category.” Skoda Octavia or Vauxhall Vectra is what I expected, and would have been happy with.

Instead, he showed us to a Renault Kadjar. Wow! Never heart of it! But it turns out to be a rather nice CUV, or Crossover Utility Vehicle. Basically, it’s an SUV built on a car frame, so a little smaller. And it came with navigation, so bonus. All large suitcases fitted in the boot (trunk), and the carry-ons fitted easily in the spare back seat, with plenty of space for the wean to crash. Which she did. In a crumpled, sleepy heap, as soon as we hit the motorway.

To Brighton!

Why go to Brighton? Well, to visit Tucker and Fiona MacNeill, obviously. In the dark days of 2011, Tucker and I started working together on the same team (when I was between Helpdesk stints). And Fiona, while on a different team, had the office next door, so we all really worked together. We also all drank whisky together, Fiona being something of an expert on the subject, to the point of running many whisky tastings under the guise of the Whisky Wench. I also hold Tucker somewhat responsible for my love of martinis – he introduced me to my second favourite, the Absolut Peppar martini. The MacNeills found themselves in Brighton after several years of not being certain which side of the Atlantic they wanted to be on, before finally settling on the north shore of the English Channel. We hadn’t seem ‘em in person since they left four years ago, so it was great to catch up in real life. Turns out they make excellent tour guides for flying visits to Brighton.

We wandered along the sea front, next to Brighton’s famous pebble beach, which is my preferred kind of beach. Sand is fine and all, but it gets in places that abrasives should never get. Chuckies were always much more fun to me as a kid, to walk on, to play with, and, well, to chuck. Mr Mac suggested a nice little shack for a fresh seafood snack (anchovies for the win!) then we walked to the surviving East pier for some traditional fish ‘n’ chips. Which was good, because we really hadn’t eaten much that calendar day. Having successfully defended our food from the bloody huge and aggressive seagulls, our tour guide took us off along the pier, back along the beach, through town to the Royal Pavilion, where we hung out so that Fiona could join us. Our joint guides then took us to the North Laine, a few nifty wee shoppes, the best gelato spot in town, then for a quick pint in The Lanes (please tell me I got those the right way around!), past some amazing graffiti (mostly sanctioned and rightfully so), then off to dinner at the Melrose.

Dinner was delicious. We started with some local oysters, which were among the best I’ve had: not too sweet, not too savory, great texture. We ordered the house white, which was poured for the four adults… and the wean. Because Britain. I love this place. My entrée was a Dover sole, because, when 100 miles along the coast from Dover, do as the Doverians(?) do. Also, I’d never actually had it before, so I wanted to try it. Tasty tasty tasty.

By the end of dinner, the US contingent were starting to crash, so we bid farewell to the MacNeills – hopefully for a much shorter time this time – and headed back to the B&B. Not much more to report for the day. We changed, fell into beds and fel…………….