When I told people I was spending Christmas with my cousins in an English village, I heard a fair amount of “that sounds magical.” I don’t think my cousins think of themselves as magical even if they do live in a place with things like fairy soap, fairy lights and fairy cakes

fairy cakes

fairy lights

fairy liquid

Now that I am home after three weeks in England, it does feel like I went through a bit of magic although the beginning of the trip did not suggest such an outcome. It began when my cousin Sue texted me to say that there was a train strike beginning the day I flew into London. I’d best book two nights in the city because there would be no way to get to the village. It took me half a morning but I found myself a cheap little place near Paddington for two nights.

Then my cat sitter got sick and I had to scramble to line up another one. One of my former students, Julia, had told me she would stay with the cat if I needed back-up and this she graciously did. The cat rewarded her with not coming out in the open for two weeks but I am eternally grateful to Julia.

On the day of my departure, the plane was four hours late. It was fortunate for me that by then, I had gone Zen because when I got to Paddington station after dark, I was fine with dragging my suitcase up and down Sussex Gardens looking for the Royal Cambridge Hotel. In the photo it was a clean white building that looked to be on a corner. In reality it was a dark and dirty little place in the middle of some brighter hotels and I passed it three times before I finally saw it. The nicest things I can say is that it was over-heated so at least it wasn’t cold, and reasonaly clean.

At reception I learned that a main pipe had burst in Belsize Park, a neighborhood to the north and water had been turned off over a considerable area, including the hotels along Sussex Gardens.

“Are you saying there’s no running water?” I asked Ziyad at the desk.

“It’s been off for a few hours but we expect it to come back on soon.”

I checked in and found the shoe box I had booked. My bathroom was across the hall, accessible with a skeleton key. It was all mine, a moot point since there was no running water. I was grimy and sweaty and wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower.

I went back to Paddington station to wash my face and brush the mold off my teeth. Then I slept for 12 hours.

The next morning there was still no running water and it continued to be expected to come on soon. I used my private toilet but didn’t flush. I knew I had one flush from the water in the tank and I saved it for when it mattered. Enough said.

Ziyad was gone and reception was full of unhappy looking people; the exodus was beginning, not just from the Royal Cambridge but from all the little hotels along the road.

I walked to Paddington and got a coffee and porridge (oatmeal) at Pret a Manger and tried to think what to do. Connected to Paddington station is what use to be the Great Western Railway hotel but is now a Hilton. I decided to see if the Paddington Hilton could accommodate me—at any price.

“Does your hotel have running water?” I asked at reception

The clerk looked at me with the same astonishment a waiter once had at the Land’s End café when I asked if there was salad with my soup. (There wasn’t, there never is, it’s not a thing in the U.K.)

“Of course we have running water.”

“Could you accommodate me for tonight?”

“Yes, we have a standard room.”

“How much?”

“219 GBP.”

“OK,” I said.

“It will be all right?” she asked

“Does it have running water?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then it will be all right.”

I checked out of the Royal Cambridge (such a promising name) and dragged my suitcase to the Hilton.  I took a long hot shower, during which, due to a wonky shower head, I flooded the bathroom floor without noticing until I stepped out and into an inch of water.

After mopping that up, I set out for a walk across Hyde Park, stopping to watch a crowd of happy dachshunds all decked out in Santa outfits for their annual Christmas walk. The rain began as a drizzle but was in full flow by the time I got to Kensington Road which turns into Knightsbridge and from there to Harrods. I wanted to see it decked out for Christmas. When I turned the corner onto Brompton Road, I saw a display that looked a cross between an amusement park and oh, maybe Prince Albert’s exhibition palace.

Harrods at Christmas

The crowd carried me like the tide into the store. I knew within 30 seconds I couldn’t stay: thick with people, no masks and too much noise. I had to fight the current to get to one of the green-coated doormen who called me “dear lady” and told me it would be difficult to get a taxi because everyone wanted a taxi on a day like today.

He was correct. I decided I would start walking back and try to get a taxi along the way. I found one but the driver, Bashir, called through his window that he couldn’t pick me up right there. “Down there, down there” he pointed. I stalked him all the way “down there” and collapsed inside his taxi. When we got to Paddington, I gave him a whacking great tip.

I had an overpriced lunch in the hotel. Something had been bothering ever since I left the Royal Cambridge. It came to me with the last chip I put in my mouth: I think I left behind my charger and adaptor.

In my room I took everything out of my bags and rifled every pocket. No charger. I trudged back to the Royal Cambridge where Ziyad was again presiding. His hair was piled with curls that hung down into his face. The day before his hair had been flat against his head.

“You’ve changed your hair,” I said.

“This is how it usually looks,” he said. “But I couldn’t wash it yesterday because there was no water.”

He couldn’t find my charger. It hadn’t been reported. As I was leaving, I just thought to say, “If it shows up, could you call me? I’m over at the Paddington Hilton.”

I would say that by then I was only half Zen.

I texted Gwen in Seattle who knows something about just about everything and Nancy, a world traveller. The consensus seemed to be that I could easily buy another one but I wasn’t so sure. It used to be that you had to get those things before you came to the U.K. Brit-rail passes and electricity adaptors. I was operating on old information.

I went to the concierge desk to see if any help was available. James hauled out a box full of chargers and adaptors left behind by guests and together we pawed through it. No U.S. to U.K. James said he would loan me his –he just happened to have one—and in the morning I could buy one at Boots.

“You sure?”

“Oh, yes, sure.”

I accepted his charger but went down that very night to the Boots in Paddington station and bought the last one they had. Then I was able to charge both phone and tablet at the same time.

That night the phone rang at 10:30 just as I was drifting to sleep. It was the front desk saying that Ziyad had brought my charger and adaptor and I could pick them up in the morning. It was raining more than water, it seemed.

The next morning I deposited myself in the Great Western Railway first class lounge. I swear this lounge at Paddington is one of the big reasons to get a first class rail pass although the biscuits at the one in Glasgow are better.

My train was cancelled due to flooding and I was hurried onto an earlier train. Then at last I was at Castle Cary station. At last I was hugging Sue and Wendy. Everything was lovely and familiar except that it was raining and there are no summer strawberries. There are floods and train strikes and rain. Let the magic begin.

Wendy