Days 28: Last Day of London

Wimbledon:  The Eternal Queue

Ironically, my very purpose for even including England in our marathon trip was to live my dream of seeing Wimbledon, one of the greatest sporting events on the planet, and certainly my favorite tennis tournament.  I was too cheap (or shall I say "too rational") to buy tickets in advance for Wimbledon--the only tickets you can buy in advance (that is, if you're not royalty, a past champion, or otherwise someone really popular) run between 600 pounds for the opening rounds and 6,000 pounds for the men's finals.  If it had just been Lisa and me, perhaps I might have sprung for the 600 pound early round seats just to witness this spectacle.  But times that number by 7 and you'll realize why that didn't appeal much to me.

Instead, we thought we would try our hand at the commoner's seats.  One of the unique things that Wimbledon does--unlike most sporting events--is to set aside1,500 tickets each day for "commoners," to be sold at the turnstiles to regular Joes who are willing to wait in line (something called "The Queue) each day.  The tickets are also sold at commoner prices:  15 to 70 pounds depending on how good they are.

On our way to The Queue at Wimbledon.  The sign behind us proved prophetic:  

we would indeed remain "non-ticket holders."

The 1,500 tickets are divided up into the three "show" courts--Center Court, Court 1, and Court 2--which will host the "big" names.  They then set aside another 5,000 tickets for the commoners to watch the tennis on courts 3-19 where the lower-seeded players compete, and to sit on the grounds, outside Center Court and watch the action on a huge jumbo-tron on "Henman Hill."

Henman Hill named after Tim Henman, 90's british tennis player, who, before Andy Murray, was the English's lone chance to win Wimbledon for the first time in 70 years. Henman made it to the semi-finals 4 or 5 times, only to break the hearts of British tennis fans each time.  The hill behind center court was named after Tim Henman because for a decade the British faithful would congregate en masse on the hill for two weeks, hoping and praying, and cheering their local boy on.

My sister, Cynthia, has been to Wimbledon twice, both times having gotten there via The Queue.  She assured us that we would have no problem getting in if we got there around 6:30 or 7:00 a.m. (the grounds open at 10:30).  We started getting nervous the night before when Jeffrey learned via his Wimbledon app that as of 6 pm on Friday there were more people in The Queue than there were tickets for the "Show Courts" for Saturday.  Undaunted, we decided to arise early with the reasonable expectation that we could still see tennis on the outer courts, or worse case, get a grounds pass and be part of the ambiance on Henman Hill, as we ate Strawberries and Cream with 5,000 brits.

The whole group (Abby included) arose just after 5:00 a.m. so that we could be out of our hotel by 5:30 a.m, and catch the Underground to Wimbledon. Just after 6:30  a.m. we arrived at The Queue only to be told by Wimbledon officials that there were so many people in The Queue that no additional people would be let onto the grounds until no earlier than 5:00 p.m.  For about three seconds we considered sticking around, but the 10.5 hour wait made that a very easy decision.  If it were me and a few buddies, or me and my oldest kids or Lisa, I might have thought about it.  With the whole group, it made very little sense, particularly because, as travelers, we had nothing to make that experience the slightest bit pleasant:  no BBQ, no camping chairs, no picnic blankets, pillows, a tent, etc.

Thus, we turned our backs to Wimbledon and headed back into town where we ate a full English breakfast in Liecester Square/

A quaint street on the way to Wimbledon

Interestingly, I wasn't all that disappointed, which is somewhat shocking.  Wimbledon remains on my bucket list, and again, it was most of the reason why I had included England in our travel plans in the first place (our visit to London was also strategically placed in the first week of the tournament to increase our odds of getting in).  For reasons that I can't fully explain (and certainly can't justify now), England didn't appeal much to me. I don't know why but it just didn't seemed sort of bland (like most authentic English food) and less exotic than about 15 other European sites that intrigued me far more.

Perhaps that is why I so throughly enjoyed it. I had low expectations, and those expectations were exceeded ten-fold.  In addition to the fun of being in a foreign land while still being able to carry on a meaningful conversation with a local, I found London to be a dynamic, melting pot of a city with a ton of culture and appealing history.  We ate very well in England, having had the best Indian food I've ever had in Oxford while we waited for our laundry to get done next door.  Our dining experiences were vast and varied (like London itself), ranging from traditional English, to Indian, and to Turkish.  The countryside, as I will detail in future posts, was as beautiful as any I have seen in Europe (though nothing matches Switzerland, the English countryside was every bit as charming as what I've seen in France, Italy, Germany, or Holland.

So, when we got turned down at Wimbledon, it wasn't a heart-breaker:  frankly, it just allowed us to see more of the city, and it gave me yet more reason to return to England!

Double-Header at the Theater (well, that was the plan anyway)

After eating breakfast at Leicester Square, we made our way to the half-priced ticket booth (tkts) to see if we could get tickets for a broadway musical that evening.  Tkts, like its namesake in Times Square, sells discounted theater tickets for same-day shows.  I had wanted to see Les Mis, but it was sold out for the days while we were in London.  We bought tickets for Wicked but could only purchase eight of them (our group included 10) because Abby would not be admitted to the production.  That meant that one of us had to stay home with her.  Lisa volunteered for that role, and would have nothing to do with allowing anyone else to assume that job.  Feeling bad about that, I decided that it would be fun to do a double-header:  I had purchased tickets for the matinee performance of Wicked, so I went and bought eight additional tickets for the musical, Jersey Boys, for that evening.  I would then stay home for that performance  and let Lisa attend that (although Sam volunteered as well, claiming that she really didn't want to see two plays in one day--a lie that was just her way of trying to help).

With our double-header of theater tickets in hand, we headed for the hotel to grab a quick nap before the first performance (that early morning had us worn out by 11:00).  As left Leicester square, Lisa said, "Watch Jersey Boys end up being kind of raunchy.  Maybe we should have checked it out before we bought tickets for it."

"Oh, it wil be fine," I said, hoping that it was telling the truth.  "I think Sam's 6th grade teacher recommended it to her."  Indeed, she had. It was 2006 and I was taking Sam to New York as an 11-year old (part of my annual "Football Trip with a Kid"), and her teacher told her to go see the new hit musical Jersey Boys.  I had assumed that she had seen it. Now I am wondering if she truly had.

A few hours later I awoke from our nap about ten minutes before Lisa.  I thought to myself, perhaps you better search for a quick "family review" on Jersey Boys--just to make sure it's not going to be terribly uncomfortable.  The first review I came across made me queasy:

"Great music and wonderful play.  However, the language was a little much. I'm a brash, potty-mouthed New Yorker, who is married to a sailor, and even I was uncomfortable with the number of F-bombs in the musical."

Then another:

"Broadway musical bills itself as family-friendly but the language is anything but."

Perhaps they cleaned up the language since it moved from New York to London, I mused and then googled that very question, hoping to find that such an implausibility was the case.  My google search yielded nothing on the matter (except for more reviews about the potty language).  I then instinctively pulled out my tickets for Jersey Boys.  I don't know why I did; perhaps I was trying to confirm what I was going to waste if we didn't end up going.   It was at that moment that I saw for the first time the disclaimer printed on the front of the tickets:  "Parental warning: not recommend for children under the age of 12 (language)."

My queasiness then bordered on all-out vomitting.  What was I going to do?  I couldn't go to Wicked, leave Lisa behind, and then as her reward for missing that superb musical let her take the kids to a nuclear explosion of F-bombs.  After the fourth F-bomb in the first five minutes, the next two and half hours would be complete misery for her, as she witnessed her children absorbing the sailor-talk.

It was then that I was saved--not by the bell, but by the backpack.

Three days earlier, as we sped away on the Gatwick Express toward Victoria Station away from the airport where we had just landed, we realized to our horror that we had somehow left Abby's backpack at the airport--most likely in an area that was protected behind customs--meaning, we couldn't just hop back on the train to the airport and retrieve it.  It would be behind at least two locked doors.  To make matters worse, Lisa's driver's license and credit card were alos in that backpack.  As soon as we checked into the hotel, I called the lost and found at the airport (yet one more reason to have a smart phone while traveling to Europe as it gave me easy access to the internet to quickly find that number).

I was told that there was no sign of the bag yet, but that such things are often not found for several hours, and that I should call back the next day after 10:00 a.m.  I did so, and to our great relief, the backpack had been found, and most importantly, Lisa's ID and credit card will still with it.  I was told that I could pick up the bag anytime between 10:00 am and 4:00 pm.

It was Saturday, and we were leaving London on Sunday, and I knew this was our last chance to retrieve the bag without costing the rest of the group a lot of time.    I also had the perfect reason to make Lisa think that going to Wicked while letting me watch Abby was a good idea.

"You go to Wicked. This gives me the perfect opportunity to get our backpack," I told her, knowing that she would be nervous about getting to and from Gatwick on her own (she sort of willingly leaves those details to me).  "I'll then go to Jersey Boys tonight, " I lied.

I had no intention of going to Jersey Boys at that point, but I knew that if I filled her in on the language issue at that moment that it would ruin her experience at Wicked:  if we decided that we weren't going to Jersey Boys then she might put up a fight about staying home with Abby; or if we decided that we weren't going to waste the 360 pounds ($540) we just spent on Jersey Boys tickets, and that we were just going to subject the kids to it, she would spend the next three hours at Wicked worrying about the F-bomb hailstorm that was coming.

So I pretended that all was well and that I would meet everyone outside Wicked's theater in a few hours.

I then made a mad dash to Gatwick with Abby (and her happy meal that I picked up along the way) in hand.  As I rode on the train, I tried calling the tkts office to see if I could get a refund.  The tickets themselves said that they were non-refundable and no-transferrable.  I thought I would ask anyway.  No answer.  I called again. No answer.

I retrieved our backpack from the lost and found, and jumped back on the next train to London, hoping that I would have enough time to get across town to Leicester square to speak with the people at tkts to see if I could return my tickets.

By the time I got back to Victoria, it was 4:15--about three hours before curtain at Jersey Boys, and about 1 hour before the end of Wicked where I was supposed to meet the crowd for dinner before our next show.  Can I actually do this, I wondered.  Can I get across town via two different underground lines, walk across Leicester Square, stand in line at the tkts booth, plead my case about returning the tickets, and then make it back to the Wicked theater in time to meet the group--all with Abby in hand?  Speaking of Abby, what if she starts doing the potty dance during all of this, do I have time to launch into the oft 10-minute search for a public toilet?

I was relieved to find the line at the tkts booth short.  When I walked up to the window, I saw a familiar face, one that also remembered me from earlier in the day.  I began my plea;

"Hi, I've made big mistake," I said.  "I was here earlier and bought tickets from you for Wicked," I began.

"Yeah, I remember you. You're the one with the big family. You asked me about whether your three year old could come," he said, acknowledging that he remembered me.

"Yes, that was me.  I have lots of little kids, "I said, preparing him for what I was about to ask, using my super-sized and no-so-european family to my advantage.  "Well, a few minutes later--on a whim--I bought eight tickets to Jersey Boys from your colleague.  A few hours later I noticed the disclaimer on the tickets, did a google search, and learned how mature the language is.  I had no idea.  I should have done my research before I bought, but I didn't.  I can't take my family to this. Is there any way that I can return these tickets," I pleaded, holding 540 breaths.

He gave an empathetic and understanding look but then said, "I don't know.  It's up to the theater.  Let me go call them," he said, and then disappeared.  What are the chances of the theater giving me my money back 3 hours before curtain, I wondered.  Slim, I quickly concluded.

When the man behind the plexi-glass returned, I was prepared for bad news.  To my surprise and complete delight, he said, "The theater wil do it. Give me a moment and I'll credit your card."

I exhaled 540 breaths--one for each of the dollars I just spared from being wasted.  I felt like breaking into Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus."

Amazingly, I was able to walk back across Leicester Square, take two metros, and get to the Wicked theater just three minutes before the show let out.  When I met the group, I explained why we weren't going to see Jersey Boys, at which point Lisa said, "Oh, honey, I should have stayed with Abby. You're not going to get to see anything," to which I replied:  "I'm ecstatic right now: I didn't just waste $540, or better yet, we don't have to endure the F-bomb barrage while sitting next to our children.

Avoiding that near disaster actually made my day. Funny that I felt great after having missing the two things I wanted to do most in London:  Wimbledon and the Theater.  Oh well, the journal entry would have been quite bland had we been able to do both of those things.  Often our greatest and most memorable travel experiences are those when nothing works out.  This day will hold fond memories for me.  Good night.  Below are final shots from London.

The question of the day: how did Daphne breathe with that thing over face?

Lisa and Abby in front of London's symbol for the Underground:  this metro is efficient, full of lines, making it easy to get anywhere in the city quickly.  London has 11 lines; Paris has 16; and Rome (amazingly) only has 2.

Lisa and I celebrated our birthdays and anniversary in London. 

For reasons that are hard to explain, she is still madly in love with me.