Preserved by Poverty

 October 9, 2024

The Night Watchman brushes his long black cape aside as he gestures out over the ramparts. A constellation of encircling house lights crowns the wooded valley below, barely piercing the darkness that enfolds the countryside. 

“In the 1600’s, during the Thirty Years War, security was a priority,” he says. “Enemies were everywhere. So, we are high on a hill, surrounded by thick walls and guard towers. But the enemies breached the walls and brought the plague. They stayed in our homes and took our food and our women.” He looks around our circle of tourists with a rueful smile. “Don’t be fooled. There were no ‘good old days.’ 

It's a message I need to hear because nostalgia for other times is a refuge I often turn to. But for now, Dave and I are exactly where we want to be, in the dark of this historic German village, held in thrall by a master storyteller.   

“For 250 years, the town went silent. 250 years of nothing. There was no money to repair or modernize. Nothing changed. Rothenburg was preserved by poverty. Eventually, artists discovered us… and the tourists followed.  So, I thank you all for coming.”

Twenty years ago, in October, 2005, Casey, Dave and I arrived in this village in flip flops and summer garb after a month’s sabbatical in Italy. Casey was down-spirited and snuffly with a terrible cold, and we were ill-prepared for damp, chilly weather. Still, as we hunched our shoulders against a drizzling rain while trudging from the tiny train station, my daughter’s face lit up as the town came into view. 

For Rothenburg ob der Tauber is magical, a fortified Medieval village, near frozen in time. To wander its narrow cobblestone streets between pastel-hued homes with steep pitched, red-tiled rooves and exposed beams is to enter a fairytale.  

Once settled into our B & B, the 600-year-old home of our host, musician and inventor, Norry Raidel, shopping for shoes and cozier clothes was a priority. As promising as were several enticing window displays of comfortable shoes at reasonable prices, every shoe store we passed was closed for the day. Casey was drooping, discouraged, and needed a nap, but in the absence of warm shoes, sweaters were a necessity. 

We turned down a side street and stopped in a store tended by a lanky, long-haired proprietor and his wife. Casey tried on a soft zip-up of heather brown and loved it, while the sweater I tried was bulky and a bit itchy. “Looks good,” said the owner, but I shook my head and returned it to the shelf. For the time being, I’d wear layers.   

That evening, after a snooze and dinner, the three of us waited in the central square, the Marktplatz, for an 8:00 tour to help us learn some history and get our bearings. From a side alley, our guide swept toward us, his Medieval cloak swirling about his legs, his long hair flowing over his shoulders. With every stride, he rapped the cobblestones with an axe-headed staff. Once he reached our group, he held up his lantern to better see my face and said, “You should have bought the sweater.” 

Shop proprietor by day, Hans Georg Baumgartner has been conducting the Night Watchman Tour in Rothenburg ob der Tauber for decades. Like us, he is twenty years older, and but for his graying hair, looks much the same in his cape and wide-brimmed hat. The blade on his staff is curved, wicked, and deadly sharp – more so than I remember. He notes my gaze and explains, “Necessary for Night Watchmen. All of the good people were asleep in their beds, and those were superstitious times. Who knew what was out in the dark?”

As he had in 2005, the Night Watchman told us the trials of this small village did not end in the 17^th century. During World War II, Nazis held the town, and on March 31, 1945, U.S. bombers destroyed a third of the homes, walls, and municipal buildings. 36 people were killed. In mid-April, the Allies received an order to finish the job. But John J. McCloy, Assistant Secretary of War, was reluctant; throughout his childhood, he’d been captivated by a painting of Rothenburg purchased by his mother during her travels. Rather than proceed with the order to demolish, he persuaded his commanding officer to allow him to try to negotiate a surrender.  

In recent months, human events feel like a dominoes affair, a set-up where a flick on one tottering tile sends the rest in a serpentine tumble, changing all that was. I suppose the citizens living in 1940’s Rothenburg felt that way too, little knowing the conversations at play in the Allied encampment beyond their city's walls.    

During the ‘70’s, Dave and I were entranced by the charm of this place we’d discovered while backpacking through Europe. So, we bought a souvenir, an etching of Rothenburg that has hung in our bedroom ever since. It fills me with wonder to reflect on the ripples set in motion from the moment McCloy’s mother wandered into a gallery, browsed as we had, and selected a painting that, years later, succeeded in saving the town.    

      

 

 

What to Do?

October 7

Fatigued after our wonderful day touring Cotswolds villages with Colin, we slumped at the desk at the Lygon Arms dining room. We weren’t hungry, but knew we’d want sustenance a bit later and needed a reservation. Max – garrulous and ever-present – was in attendance with soulful, statuesque Petra, who had been our server at breakfast. Both were perfectly suited to the service industry, for they made us feel like welcome old friends from our first meeting. 

As enchanted as I’d been throughout our tour, my anxiety about the next day’s whirl of train rides and connections had returned, and Max and Petra were kind in their sympathy as I burdened them with our itinerary and my worry. 

"Would it help if I send breakfast to your room? Around 7:00? You wouldn’t have to take the time to come down to the dining hall. Maybe that would relieve a little stress?” said Max.

Touched by his kindness and the thought of such an indulgence, I was incredulous. “Wow. You could do that?”

“Of course! Happy to!”

After we settled on a breakfast hour, Petra said, “so, are you ready for dinner?"

We were not and weren’t sure when we’d be hungry, so Petra said, “You go rest. I’ll reserve a table for you, and you come down when you’re ready.” Oh, to be cared for with such warmth was a gift … as was our dinner of gnocchi with spiced squash and crisped sage and deliciously decadent sticky toffee pudding.

October 8

Dispirited, Dave and I sat on a platform bench encircled by our over-sized luggage and smaller bags. Other travelers marched by, their trim suitcases with surfaces of a smart metallic or business-perfect navy blue rolling easily on four wheels. In comparison, the wheels of my suitcase had been shedding their casings like some long-distance trailer truck dropping its re-treads, making their roll rocky. 

We had left The Lygon Arms at 7:50 am. Petra had rushed out to hug us good-bye and tell me not to stress out. She struck a dramatic pose and blew us a kiss as we climbed into the taxi. 

So began the journey I had dreaded for weeks: taxi to Evesham, Evesham to Paddington, Paddington to St. Pancras International Station, St. Pancras to Brussels, Brussels to Frankfurt, Frankfurt to Wurzburg. Or at least, that was the plan.

We’d made it as far as Brussels and had disembarked with a crowd of passengers rushing to whatever was next. A cheerful young woman bearing a heavy backpack told us she was catching the same connection as us and trotted off. We tried to follow her, but hampered as we were by our massive bags, we lost sight of her in the crush of people. 

Where to go? No signs to other platforms, so we followed the surge. We saw a staircase to the right, but no way could we manage it dragging our bags. A line had formed for two elevators, so the only option was to join the queue. It was a long wait. 

Once attained, the main concourse was awash with people in a hurry. Yes, there were signs, but written in an unintelligible language – maybe Dutch? – and the times indicated were beyond my math skills: 13:05… was that 1:05 or what? I felt frantic, near teary, and my arms were aching from lugging my enemy of a suitcase. Desperately, we scanned the multitudes for anyone who looked official. 

A burly guy in a red vest with badges and a walkie talkie looked promising. He was patient, helpful, and… regretful as he checked his phone for our train’s status. 

“It looks like that train has departed,” he said. He scrolled a bit more, seemingly as hopeful as I was that he was wrong. But no. At my stricken expression, he gestured down the concourse.  “There… there. Go to the international desk. They will help.” He ushered us over to a handsome lad with startling blue eyes who was wearing that same red vest and then disappeared. 

Did I thank the burly guy? I don’t think so. Dave would never fail in that, but he was trailing behind with our heaviest bag. I was so flustered, so upset, and I had mentally moved on, focused on the young guy and finding out what we should do. Still, I hate that I didn’t thank that man.

Blue Eyes was sympathetic but gently accusing. “The train was on time. You…?  What happened? Trouble with your bags? Why…?”

I did not shriek, “Why aren’t there more signs? Where were your red-vested colleagues when we needed them? Two elevators?  Are you serious? You gave us only 17 minutes to figure this out on our own??! ” No. I said none of that. Showing amazing self-control, I said, “Too many people waiting for the lifts.”  

Despite his obvious intent to blame our dilemma on us, he scanned our tickets, transferred them to another train, and directed us to Track 10. There we sat surrounded by our bags to wait another hour and a half. 

Glitches are inevitable while traveling, at least for Sylvestros, but maybe this was meant to be. Once we were seated on the next train to Frankfurt, we shared the coach with Susan, Benjamin, two-year-old Justus, and five-year-old Hemmings. A joy.

Inveterate travelers undaunted by two children, they were returning home to Cologne having spent time in London. “The other day, we were picking up stones along the Thames and throwing them in the water. A boat went by and kicked up a wake. I was not fast enough," said Benjamin, “and Justus fell in.” He gestured the length of his son’s body and said, “He needed new clothes and new shoes.” Justus grinned and looked very pleased about his emerald-green Incredible Hulk tee-shirt.

*

While the Wurzburg train station was neon-bright, disorienting, at 1:30 AM, outside on the street, it was dark, damp, and raw. Disheveled and tired from our frustrating day of travel, we gazed out over ripples of trolley tracks into a city asleep. I had the address of our hotel, and a vague memory of its location as represented on the tiny map on the website I had viewed on my computer at home weeks ago. I prayed it was as close as I thought, but even so, how to find it? It was hard not to cry.

Off to our left was a line of taxis, so we headed over, dragging our bags, hoping someone spoke English. Three drivers leaned against their vehicles chatting and smoking. Would they be honest and not pass up the chance for a fare?

Their English was minimal and even after months of studying on Duolingo, I speak nur ein bisschen Deutsch – only a little German. The five of us huddled close over my now lined and crumpled itinerary as I showed them the address of the Hotel Wurzburgerhof. 

“Is close… I can give a ride?” said one kindly. Perhaps he sensed I was too close to tears to push. I’d made these plans, and they were my responsibility. I didn’t want to drag Dave on a mis-chosen search. I shook my head no, and with a slashing motion of his hand, the man indicated that the hotel was straight ahead, just down the road. 

So, weary, worried, and nervous, we hauled our bags over the trolley tracks and across a thoroughfare that would be a madhouse of cars and motorbikes come daylight. We rattled on, stillness all around us. 

In essence, the men had said, “Soon… a sign.” Two blocks ahead, we could see a vertical neon “HOTEL,” but the facade didn’t look anything like the picture on the website. Whatever. No other choice.  

When we pulled up to the hotel, it was not ours, there were no lights inside, and only a keypad combination lock next to the door. In despair, we scanned our surroundings, seemingly sketchy in the dark. What to do? 

As happened in London, an option was for one of us to stay with the bags while the other went back to the taxi drivers for clarity. “Not gonna happen,“ said Dave. Or, we could return together? Unappealing given our fatigue and weighty bags.   

By now, it was close to 2:00 AM, and there were no signs of life… until a young blond woman carrying a pizza box rounded a corner.

Thank heavens. Literally. I thanked the Heavens, for surely this girl was heaven sent.  

No doubt she was surprised to see two aging travelers surrounded by suitcases standing forlornly in the street. She spoke some English and juggled her pizza box while fumbling for her phone to pull up a map.   

“You are close, “ she said. “See here? Go left, past the bus stop.” Our heads nearly touched as we leaned over her cell… the girl, the map, and the phone, light banishing the darkness. 

Fifteen minutes later, Dave and I were crammed into a tiny lift at the Wurzburgerhof with our cursed bags and a room key in hand.  

 

 

Glad Colin's at the Wheel

 Car-less we were, and we wanted to visit other villages. Beyond Broadway, we’d read of Stow-on-the-Wold, Burford, Bibury, and Bourton-on-the-Water, and were drawn by the poetry of their names and images conjured by a lifetime of reading English novels. But the thought of Dave navigating twisty Cotswolds lanes on the left side was too unnerving to contemplate. So, at a friend’s recommendation, we turned to Cotswold Tours and Travel and hired Colin Gill. 

Thank heavens we had a proficient local driver at the wheel, for the roads were narrow, basically one lane, cut, to my thinking, for horse and cart travel. Close-packed hedges skirted either side, a gauntlet of green that masked sight lines. I was buckled tight in the back seat and grateful to be so as, more than once, we rounded a blind curve to come nearly grill to grill with an oncoming car. Relaxed, friendly, and flexible, Colin was unfazed by such close encounters. To my squeaks of alarm, he said, “Just the way it is here. I’m used to it.”  

Oh my.  

Our first stop was Bourton-on-the Water, a lovely hamlet of earthy stone buildings along winding streams crossed by picturesque bridges. In my Google search for “best Cotswolds villages,” Bibury was tops, so Colin – willing to tweak his route however we wished – took us there next. Clearly others had read the same lists, and ours was a companionable stroll with a host of others. 

Over the course of the day, we walked to the edge of a steep escarpment where a shin-kicking competition and cheese rolling event are highlights of an annual festival. Elsewhere, we saw the remains of a Medieval cart wash across from a 1600’s almshouse that still houses the “less fortunate.” In Chipping Campden, Colin pointed out the ruins of a once illustrious estate burned in the 1600’s by the Royalists to prevent the Parliamentarians from using it. We also stopped at a brewery to sample the beer and admire the grounds, waterwheel, and lake where swans sailed across still water, their wakes sending shimmering patterns through the reflected fall colors. 

Later we swung by Broadway tower, but it was Stow-on-the-Wold that captivated me with its history, sights, and stories.

When we arrived in the town, Colin nestled the car in a spot on a side street, and we walked to the village square. Warmed by the sun, we were charmed by the encircling shops of ocher brick with shingled rooves and chimneys skinny as heron necks. But surely spirits whisper there, for in the final days of the English Civil War, on March 21, 1646, the lanes into the square were barricaded, and 200 Royalists were massacred. It was said the blood puddled so deep ducks could swim in it. 

Nearby, the Porch House, with sections of the building dating from 947 A.D., claimed to be “England’s oldest inn.” There, too, Time’s layers transform and muffle. Guests have pulled chairs close to the fireplace, and servers have shouldered trays of beer in the pub for hundreds of years, but unlike those long-ago visitors, we were not worried about witches. At our request, a burly, blond waiter was happy to show us the Medieval “witch marks” scratched into the surround of the fireplace to ward off hexes. 

In the corner of the square stands St. Edwards Church where hundreds of prisoners were held at the time of the massacre. Two twisting trees, graceful as dancers, flank the back entrance, reportedly inspiration for J.R.R. Tolkien’s “Durin’s Door” in The Lord of the Rings. 

Inside the church, a memorial to the 45 soldiers from town who died in The Great European War, World War I, spans a wall. On a table nearby lay a plain, three-ring white binder filled with pages sheathed in plastic. Colin explained that the binder held pages on every lost soldier with pictures, facts about their lives, and reminiscences about the person they had been. As I turned the pages, I stopped periodically to read an entry or gaze at the photographs. Some of the 45 lost were so young, they were pictured in their school uniforms. I thought of the many lists of names on stone or bronze monuments in small towns and cities in every country. Every life cut short. Every name representing a family devastated by grief.  

Rupert Henry Ingles-Chamberlayne died on October 15, 1914, at the age of 17. Ten weeks after his death, his school mentor wrote to the boy’s mother, “His pleasant, open, smiling face… left no doubt in my mind of his character and upbringing. All I ever heard or saw of him only strengthened my first impression.” Rupert served in the Royal Navy and left behind his parents and four siblings.      

 

 

 

Crazy in the Cotswolds

October 5, 2024

Our Uber crunched across gravel and pulled up in front of an impressive stone façade. Immediately, two men in button-down shirts and tweed vests rushed to relieve us of our hated, monstrous bags. 

Unused as we are to such luxurious treatment, mentally still the scruffy twenty-somethings who backpacked through Europe in the seventies, unworthy to be guests in such a venerable establishment, we protested, “No! NO! They’re too heavy! We can manage them!” 

“We insist!” said one man, and a tug of war ensued as we sought to wrest our suitcases away from him. 

“Please! You’ll hurt your back!” I said.

“We are used to this, really!” 

When I loosened my grip and turned to thank the Uber driver, my attention diverted for but a moment, the men and our bags disappeared. 

Resigned, Dave and I followed, grinning at the vision before us as we left the brightness of day to enter the dimly lighted front hall of The Lygon Arms. The small bags still in our care rattled over the stone floors as we passed the first of several parlors. Inviting it was with its leather wing-backed chairs and massive fireplace darkened by 700 years of smoky fires, and already I pictured myself ensconced there with a book. 

At a broad desk, a young man checked us in, his blue eyes so wide, his accent so English, and his voice so soft-spoken, I had to ask him to repeat himself several times. Such a contrast was his lovely lilt to my flat American, “What? Sorry. What did you say?”

After check-in, Sophie - lithe, blond, and dressed in black - led us up a flight of stairs, down a hall, through a glassed annex, up four stairs and down another hall to our room where our suitcases awaited. Lord, we were glad we hadn’t made that circuitous trip with them. Those poor men. 

We unpacked and Dave hopped into the shower while I perused the inn’s history on an electronic tablet. How odd to snuggle in this ancient inn against a comfy headboard upholstered in plaid woolens scrolling for info about dinner reservations on a modern device. 

The matching curtains were of soft, heavy wool in shades of lichen and forest green, and a wingback chair with brass studs graced the corner. Until I scrolled further, I was mystified by the decorative decision to place on the bureau a large white rabbit sitting high on his haunches. All was clear when I learned the original name of the inn was The White Hart. 

                                    

October 6

Careful to avoid horse droppings and muddy puddles, Dave and I followed a footpath worn through the green of a well-grazed meadow. Black-faced sheep with blue swatches on their nubbly wool gave us passing notice, while horses and cows further along paid no heed. At various points, we fiddled with ingenious wooden gate systems that kept the animals in their respective fields while allowing us through. Pauses to absorb our surroundings granted sweeping views of the dirt path we had trod, swaths of pasture, a stately stone church tower, and the village of Broadway beyond. Long have I wanted to wander in a scene such as this…   

So, why was I wallowing in worry?  

Yes, despite the gentle wind, chirp of birds, and languid flick of a horse’s tail, I was rumbling about in my head, brooding about catching the Eurostar train from London to Brussels in two days. 

Dave would have thought I was crazy if he knew how many nights this had kept me awake. I thought I was crazy too: making train connections throughout the trip had put a pit in my stomach ever since we made the arrangements. As distant church bells tolled, clamoring for attention, I chided myself, and sought to shake it off.

We had climbed a long but gentle slope, and it was nearing lunch time. As I stepped around a pile of manure and angled to avoid a clump of thorny thistles, I commented that a comfy seat in a pub sounded pretty good. “Let’s go a little further,” said Dave. “I think the trail skirts the edge of the field and loops back on the other side of that hedgerow.” 

Neither of us had any idea what the path might do, or even if the close-packed bushes were a hedgerow, but we continued walking until we encountered some hikers who told us the trail headed back after an abandoned farm. 

We pushed on, lifting latches, winding through gate mazes, and noting the “Cotswold Public Way” signs until we came upon a weathered shed beneath the massive dead-white trunk of a tree. Abandoned, yes, long ago, but definitely not a farm. Still, content to grant it that status as reason to turn around, I said, “You’re welcome to keep on, but I’m heading back.”

By then, Dave was ready for a pub too.   

Return trips are always faster and easier, and we snapped too many pictures of sheep, cows, and horses along the way, our phones switching to low-battery mode from overuse. When we reached that long, gentle slope toward the end, Dave’s toes and my knees were offended. 

“Walk backwards,” I said. Silly as we looked, we turned around and inched our way down the slope backwards… Seriously, we did. And, Cotswold-lesson-learned, it helped.

The village of Broadway is enchanting. Rough walls overgrown with moss and creeping ivy, pink roses blooming in small gardens, whitewashed cottages with exposed beams and thatched rooves. And nestled among all that charm was the perfect welcome after our hike: a pub offering cushioned seats, wine, beer, and fish n’ chips. 

                                                                        

London, Part II: Character Underground

What is the right mix of ego, character, courage, and integrity to make a great leader? When do circumstances create the leader, and when does it arise from within? What befalls a country when circumstances are dire, and the leader is inadequate to the task? As authoritarians jockey for power in 2025, we may find out, but fortunately for Britain, in 1940 Winston Churchill was in command. As Hitler’s squadrons battered the country with aerial bombing raids, the Prime Minister, military strategists, and civilian staff - 500 people - worked in shifts round the clock from the basement war rooms beneath a building in Whitehall to defend their island home. Before our trip to London, when we asked friends what we should see, without exception, Churchill’s War Rooms topped the list. 

Having already scoped out the location, Dave and I arrived, as suggested, 15 minutes ahead of our allotted time. The line was long, but an employee informed us that most were there for the prior time slot, so we had plenty of time to chat with those waiting with us. While traveling, even waiting in line is an opportunity, an open door to lives beyond our own.

The bearded, ruddy-faced man behind us was a discouraged writer in need of inspiration. Here, in the city of Charles Dickens, he had visited the author’s house and visited his grave in Westminster Abbey. As the line to the door of the museum inched forward, we told him about our favorite holiday movie, The Man Who Invented Christmas, which portrays Dickens’s grim childhood and his frustration following three commercial flops. Despite that fallow time, he went on to write his most enduring novel, A Christmas Carol. Our companion’s eyes brightened, and he said he’d watch the movie that very night. I wonder if he did, and if it was the nudge he needed. 

Eventually, we were waved forward into the museum that precedes the actual War Rooms. 

Of Churchill, it must be said that as much as the man had the ego and character for greatness, he was a character as well. Known for his cigars, bow ties, bizarre work habits, breakfast cocktails, and taste for champagne, Churchill once said, “We are all worms. But I do believe that I am a glow-worm.” In the decades since his death, actors from Richard Burton to Gary Oldman have sought to project that mix of imperious growl and eccentric glow. 

The museum’s exhibits covered the span of Churchill’s life, career, and impact with videos, posters, memorabilia, and vintage photographs as well as his uniforms, personal items, and a collection of hats. A flip board allowed visitors to mix and match photographs of Churchill’s face with different hats. Fun!

Less fun was imagining the claustrophobic quarters and tension in the War Rooms in the years up to Japan’s surrender on August 16, 1945. Relatively protected while encased within reinforced concrete walls, behind steel doors, and below a 5’ thick concrete slab, personnel labored knowing that above ground, bombs were pummeling neighborhoods and scattering loved ones to whatever shelter they could find. Life as they’d known it before their descent into the basement was being obliterated by Hitler’s Luftwaffe. 

As if the danger above and the importance of the work in these rooms was happening even now, there was a hush of held breath as Dave and I snaked down narrow hallways with other visitors. We peered through glass partitions at lifelike mannequins perusing maps, pondering troop movements, or bent to typewriters and phones. Audio recordings played through our individual headsets supplying details about life and the strict security during those years spent largely underground.

I imagined the nagging weight of responsibility in knowing the importance of the work at hand, and the fearful uncertainty for self, loved ones, country, and future. While bombs are not falling in America 2025, I feel something akin to that worry myself lately. How did they bear up under those pressures? 

When the basement lights were turned off in 1945, and the last person closed the door, the rooms went largely untouched until they were turned into a museum. Vestiges of the tactics employed to ease frayed nerves and maintain mental and physical health remained in place. Smoking was a comfort, its risks unknown, and the butt of one of Churchill’s cigars still rests in an ashtray. Commander John Heagerty had a sweet tooth, and three sugar cubes were discovered in his desk drawer, one with an edge shaved off suggesting he was rationing this rare treat. During the war, those in these basement rooms were sustained by simple pleasures, the company of their colleagues, and the knowledge that the nature of the future, our present, depended on them.   

                                                                        

 

 

 

 

 

 

London, Part I: Brown Wood, Butchers, and Finding Our Way

It was after 11:00 PM London time when Dave and I staggered into a brightly lit Italian deli, the only place open, to grab some pasta and beer. We had traveled that day from JFK to Heathrow Airport to Farringdon Station, emerged from the station, took a left where we should have gone right, and wandered in a dark, unfamiliar neighborhood for 45 minutes dragging our loathsome, far-too-big, suitcases in search of our hotel, The Rookery 1764. 

Ultimately, a kind couple heading into the light, camaraderie, and warmth of a pub responded to my near-teary quest for directions by pulling up a map on their phone and pointing the way. If we’d gone right, not left, out of the station, we would have arrived at The Rookery within minutes.

Sigh. Travel and glitches. Part of the deal.  

While many travelers prefer the familiarity of a Marriott or Sheraton, we seek accommodations with a sense of place, of history. Increasingly, that is hard to find. As antiques and brown wood have fallen out of fashion, historic elements have been carted off in dumpsters to make way for smooth white walls and generic furnishings. 

The owners of The Rookery, however, were drawn to the property and its sister hotels – Hazlitt’s 1718 and Batty Langley’s 1724 – by the wish to preserve them. And when we finally tottered into the Rookery’s front hall, we were embraced by burnished wood paneled walls, subdued lighting, and Persian rugs warming the stone floor. A glimpse into the library with its shelves of old books, oil paintings, and leather armchairs promised a cozy place for reading once we were settled. 

After checking in, Toosh, the receptionist, led us down the hall to the stairway. Oh dear, a stairway. As I mentioned, our bags were monstrous, we were weary… and our room was on the third floor. Toosh was wise to keep that to himself, and he fought valiantly, though in vain, to wrest our bags from our cramped hands. But the climb was worth it, for our room was a haven with a carved wooden bedstead, massive desk-turned armoire, and a pensive portrait over the fireplace mantel.  

Every room at the hotel is named after a real person who once lived in or frequented this neighborhood in Clerkenwell. Ours was dedicated to Sophie Rood who often accompanied her mother, an “ass driver,” to the meat market just down Cowcross Road from The Rookery. 

After dropping off our bags, we headed down Cowcross to find food, hoping the long-ago cows crossing Cowcross Road had suffered no premonitions on their way to the Victorian monolith of the Smithfield Meat Market which loomed before us. 

While changing times and WW II bomb damage ended trade in livestock there, it continues to operate from midnight to 5:00 AM. Although Dave and I were supping on our beer and pasta in advance of the market’s opening, several white-coated, blood-smeared butchers gearing up for their long work night stopped in to grab black tea, rolls, and sandwiches. 

Dave is ever curious and chatted up one guy who was eager to discuss the fine points of his trade. He was proud of his years as an apprentice and bemoaned the unwillingness of some newer to the craft to do the hard work of butchering a whole carcass. 

“So, you do a lot of heavy lifting?” Dave asked. 

“Not like when we’d get the whole cow. We still get whole lambs though…” 

While Dave asked about the weight of whole lambs, I smiled brightly, eyebrows raised, feigning admiration. We gave up meat decades ago, and butchering is not my favorite subject. However, in this setting, I understood Dave’s interest. We were in London to learn something of its long history, and here, within the shadow of the Smithfield Market, men like this – and Sophie Rood’s mother for that matter - had driven and butchered livestock for centuries.    

                                                           *

The Next Day: 

Yawn. Stretch. Ohhh, that was a long day. Cast a snoozy glance at the time…  

No. That can’t be right. THAT CAN‘T BE RIGHT! 

“Dave! Wake up! It’s 11:15!”

“What? No Way! What time are we meeting the Porters?”

“12:15! We have to catch a train to Paddington and then find the restaurant!”

A wild flurry ensues. Faces washed. Teeth brushed. Rumpled clothes dug from suitcases. Dress and dash down three flights of stairs. Skip coffee. Run to Farringdon Station. Which track? Check once, check twice that the train’s bound for Paddington. Which way to exit the station? Ask directions from this person then that one. Hear “I’m not from around here” more than once. Agh.

Finding our way is not our forte. 

By sheer good luck, we spot the restaurant, and Chris and John waving from a table in the window. Incredibly, we’re only five minutes late… but way overdue on our promise to visit the Porters, old friends from years of working and living at Eagle Hill School.  

Tucker and Casey, now in their forties, have long claimed they were raised in a commune. For decades, we denied it. But as we’ve observed their experiences in raising our grandkids, we’ve had to concede; they’re right. 

For fifteen years, we lived on campus, and the Porters were part of our community. We ate meals together in the dining hall with students, colleagues, and their children. When we needed help, there was always a friend willing to babysit, split a schedule, or keep an eye out on the playground. We forged strong friendships, and when the Porters moved to England, we promised we’d visit soon. 

That was ten years ago. 

Despite our lapse, Chris and John took the two-hour ride from their home in Bradninch to meet us. Our reunion was brief but crammed as we caught up on kids, grandkids, and unease over the impending election.

                                                            *

Is everyone here from somewhere else? Are we all helpless and lost without AI, Google, or GPS to find our way? In these uncertain times, is that a metaphor for life? Maybe. Finding places in London proved to be a challenge.

We had three full days and minimal plans; Churchill’s War Rooms was the only absolute on our list. So, we figured a Hop On, Hop Off bus tour would give us an overview and transportation to Westminster Abbey, the Tower, Big Ben, and Buckingham Palace. For this trip – our first to London – we were not pushing for a see-it-all touring experience. 

Despite frequent glimpses of the red buses always just ahead, out of reach, and rounding a corner, we couldn’t find a place to buy tickets and … hop on. It had sounded so easy! But, as happened throughout our stay, asking for directions of passersby and shop vendors generally reaped misinformation, if any. We heard, “I’m not from around here” countless times. Or “I’m not sure where that is, but I DO know that Trafalgar Square is that way.” The helpful, definitive outstretched arm indicating our supposed destination was invariably incorrect, only discovered after we’d hoofed several blocks.

Ultimately, we flagged down a bus, and the driver graciously allowed us to board, saying he would alert a salesperson to our presence when the bus reached one of the company’s offices. And so it was.

How great to sit and ride! Generally, we avoid public transportation and prefer to walk, but we’d covered some territory already that day, and it was starting to spit rain. Up on the top deck, under a canopy, we chatted with a family from Minnesota while passing the London Eye – a terrifyingly high Ferris wheel - Parliament, and Big Ben. 

But how could we pass the imposing grandeur of Westminster Abbey and not hop off for a visit?

We could not. And although my spirits had soared even to be in the presence of that magnificent edifice, to believe I’d soon be standing near the resting place of my hero Charles Dickens, we were denied entrance. Westminster Abbey was closed for the day. 

What?

Well, closed to tourists. It was about 3:30 and we’d not considered that a cathedral such as this might close. We’d missed the last entry time by minutes and the two police officers – are they still called bobbies? – were neither sympathetic nor polite. One of them indicated a sign listing visiting hours and mumbled something about tourists and their inability to read.

We could read, and we were mad at Westminster Abbey.  

Sigh. Fine. We’d try another day. By then, we decided to do some reconnaissance to locate Churchill’s War Rooms so we wouldn’t be late for our reservation day after tomorrow. 

It was an easy walk, and once we’d established our route, we strolled through St. James Park and were charmed to chance upon the Bird Keepers Cottage on Duck Island. Framed by trailing sun-lit willows, the cottage seemed a vision from the Brothers Grimm. As if the cozy stucco building with its mossy shingled roof and encircling gardens were not magical enough, great white birds perched on rocks in front of the cottage, stretching their wings to dry. Pelicans. Since first presented as a gift by a Russian ambassador in 1664, pelicans have graced the park along with moorhens, mallards, coots, and wigeons. 

Pummeled Again

After Trump’s blanket pardon of 1500 January 6th rioters, I dug out my journal of that day and read my entry, the handwriting shaky with fear, describing the violent attack on the Capitol as I watched it unfold on TV. Millions of us were witnesses, and no amount of white-washing can change the facts. I am afraid of what lies ahead in this country, for now unrecognizable as the America of “justice under the law” and “all men are created equal.” Rather than try to recapture the emotions of that day in light of the pardons, I decided to re-post my blog from 2020. Wistfully, I note the optimism of the closing paragraph: 

Waves of fury and incredulity pummel my mental shores. Naïve as I am, despite the pundits’ prediction that Senate Republicans would vote to acquit Trump, I believed that dedication to democracy, oaths of office, oaths of impartiality, and love of country would win out over party politics in the face of evidence and the terror of personal experience.

But no.

Buffeted by cross currents, America has been twisted and tortured like its flag in an insurrectionist’s grip. Abused were the stars and stripes on January 6^th as they were wielded as a weapon to bludgeon police. Those who derided Black Lives Matter protesters this summer with calls to “Back the Blue” swarmed the Capitol howling “Stop the Steal” as they brandished the American flag along with their arsenal of bats, fence posts, and pitchforks to bloody those defending the Capitol.

When I was a child, I was told to kiss the flag 100 times if it touched the ground by mistake. Was this my parents’ invention or a national rule? I don’t know, but the message was clear. Dave’s father too, a WW II veteran, taught his grandchildren the solemn lesson “Honor the soldiers and the flag.”

Although they sought to appropriate the motives of America’s revolutionaries, the Trump supporters who breached the Capitol can lay no claim to heroism. They desecrated American symbols while impeding certification of an adjudicated election, endangered lawmakers, spread feces, and destroyed and stole national treasures. Thugs were these, not patriots. The fever of doing Trump’s bidding superseded respect for the flag, democratic process, and human life.

What to make of Mitch McConnell? He refused to call the Senate to session when the House Managers were ready to present the case in mid-January. There was time for a trial, and the former president was still in office. Mitch had not the balls to vote “guilty,” but had the gall after the count to affirm the House Managers’ evidence of Trump as inciter-in-chief. Although the Senate had already addressed the Constitutionality by a majority vote, McConnell defended himself with the timing technicality he created.

In his closing remarks, lead House manager Jamie Raskin looked around the Senate chamber at those before him and quoted Benjamin Franklin, saying, “If you make yourself a sheep, the wolves will eat you. Don’t make yourself a sheep.” How else but as sheep are we to see Senators who believed Trump guilty, yet in their fawning loyalty, absolved him of accountability at the expense of our democracy?

What now? In betraying their oaths and ignoring the result of the vote on the impeachment’s constitutionality, those senators eviscerated the Senate of its credibility and power. They did not “defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic” when Trump and his mob sought to hold power despite the vote of the people. They waived their sworn charge, and clung to a technicality already dismissed by majority vote.

By that acquittal, the Senate has granted future presidents a “January Exception” for whatever purposes he or she might have in that final month in office; Congress and the Republic be damned. After his final summation of the evidence of Trump’s efforts to prevent the transfer of power, delight at the attack, and refusal to send help, Representative Raskin said, “If that’s not a high crime and misdemeanor, then nothing is.”

It is work to contain my fury and contempt, but friends remind me of reasons for optimism. President Biden has remained focused on the people and the planet. Vaccinations have doubled. A COVID relief bill will soon pass. The U.S. has re-entered the global community in positive ways, re-joining the Paris Climate Accord and the WHO. In discrediting their vote and abdicating their responsibility, the Senate has re-affirmed what has always been true: it is up to us, the people, to govern wisely with our votes.