The Coonridge Digest: You’re welcome anytime – Cheerio!

Greetings from the Ridge.

Samuel Johnson, the 18th-century essayist said it best: "When a man is bored with London, he is bored with life."

The final leg of our European journey plopped us right into the heart of city that sits on top about seven layers of history, dating to pre-Roman times. Few vestiges of Caesar’s troops remained when Herb and I got there, so we settled for all things British, starting with breakfast.

I’ve been eating at the Coonridge Cafè for about thirty years and I can never once remember seeing blood pudding, cooked tomatoes, scones, and kidneys on the breakfast menu. Maybe I need to start checking the back side. Breakfast is generally a skip-able meal in the U.S. but in most of Great Britain, it’s one of the highlights of the day. Benjamin Franklin once gave this advisory on eating in England: "Eat breakfast three times a day."

Coffee is another matter on which we are at some variance with our Anglo cousins. I’m a fan of the stuff black and strong but it took all my powers of persuasion to convince our various and bemused waitresses to put their milk on hold. Most were aghast that anyone would actually drink his java without adding at least half milk, and when I occasionally opted for tea, the cup would come already half-filled with rich cream.

Of course there was more to this great city than scones and crumpets, and Herb and I set about a course of action that would cover the British metropolis in three days of adventure. If a tourist isn’t careful, his vacation becomes one of those carnival games where you shoot at the moving duck then move onto the next. There’s a real danger in a city of so many sights, smells and sounds to start ticking off the landmarks in a photograph-and-capture mode instead of savoring a few selected experiences. Herb and I fell somewhere in the middle between the sit and ponder and the high-speed tourist mode.

Let’s face it, there’s very little "high speed" left in Herb and I anymore and while our previous trips to London have featured hurried strolls down crowded sidewalks we now have become experts on the interior of London taxis. And an occasional trip on "The Tube."

The London Tube (American translation: subway train) remains one of wonders of the modern world. For about five bucks a day, the city is yours and unlike the systems in Tokyo or Moscow where you’re suffocated in a sea of humanity or New York’s system that’s impossible

to decipher, the underground railroads of both London and Paris are not only a great gift to fuel consumption and time management, but they’re actually fun to ride.

The only time I was truly miffed was the day I sat down. The British are a congenial bunch and the typical Londoner will gladly jump up and offer his seat to an elderly person. On day two of our London invasion we hopped onto the tube and a young Brit immediately offered his seat to me instead of Herb. I wanted to slap them both.

The delights of our entire excursion to the British Isles might well be summed up in a sock shop. I’d taken every pair of old socks I owned on the trip with the intention of leaving them in the various hotel rooms as a sort of gift for the barefooted of Britain. And as usual,

I’d miscounted and came up one day – two socks short. Zipping into a shoe store just up the street from Covent Garden I purchased a pair of British hosiery and the lady behind the counter said, "American are you?"

"Yes. The Midwest."

"Delighted to have you, love. You know, now that we’ve chucked Tony Blair and your Mr. Bush to be sent off, we might stand a chance of being happy again."

"Oh, I wouldn’t call myself unhappy."

"I mean with the way the world looks at us. Used to be we had more friends, don’t you think?"

"Yes, I suppose we did."

"Six pounds, twenty, please."

I handed her the equivalent of twelve dollars, wincing a bit at the state of the dollar, and went to leave.

"I want to go there someday – America, I mean. If it’s a nice as the people I think I might feel at home. What?"

"You’re welcome anytime – and I’ll provide you with cheaper socks."

She laughed. "Cheerio!"

Cheerio!

You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but we’ll be home.