Christmas was a jumble of eating and talking and playing cards and dominoes with the family. We started with just the immediate family, eating homemade apricot kolaches with steaming mugs of coffee and opening a few presents. I think gift-wise, this was one of my favorite Christmases in history. We decided to forgo the wrapped variety for the most part, so the material segment of the morning took scarcely any time, and then we began what promises to be a spanking new tradition – reading stories we’d written aloud to each other. My dad has been writing for the last few years, trying to capture some of the many stories of his life. So his request for Christmas was that all of us – Josh, Justin and I - join him on the journey and jot down one of our memories. Justin began with the story of a game of mattress chicken (invented by his older, sadistic, cousins) gone bad, leaving him bloody and scarred. And a little bitter. Hysterically narrated with his wry sense of humor, he left us all in stitches. (okay, bad pun, sorry…) Josh talked about his youth as defined by hair, with Dad’s frightening loss of a beard, his first haircut, etc. Also very clever. I used my trademark lack of remembering any actual events of my childhood and created a story very loosely based on our lives, recounting a day at the farm, playing with cows, three-wheelers, and each other. Then Dad read his most recent story to us on the way to Grandma’s, taking us to boot camp with him before he headed off to Vietnam. I’m looking forward to the next installment, which he’s working on now.

After the Christmas literary extravaganza, we arrived at Grandma’s to participate in an eating extravaganza par excellence. After a massive quantity of appetizers, dinner, and dessert, we rolled home to do some finally packing before the boys and I headed out on our trip. (I guess I should add that we did do more than eat. We played dominoes and cards, and Bill played Santa for the younger kids. Lots of good times catching up with folks I haven't seen in a while. But we did eat. Through all of the other stuff, we never actually stopped eating. Ack.)

The evening after Christmas Josh, Justin and I boarded a plane for London for a little European vacation before we all return to work and school. Arriving after about 30 hours or so of no sleep, we fought off the urge to nap and toured around London for the afternoon with a nice guy we met at our hostel. After seeing London and Tower bridges and deciding it was too late to see the Tower of London, we decided to go to Tate Modern to check out some great art. Justin consulted the map, with the help of Taylor, our new friend, and they confidently led the way. About 45 minutes later, deep in the heart of a residential area, we asked a guy taking his trash out for directions. His eyes widened a bit, and he paused, then told us “you’re going in the wrong direction. I mean, COMPLETELY in the wrong direction. You need to go all the way back to London Bridge, and then it’s another 15 minutes beyond that. Do you want me to call you a cab?” At this point he looked down and lit a cigarette, obviously completely exhausted by our stupidity. We declined the offer and began the trek back. By this time (about 4:30) the sun had set and it was cold and beginning to snow. But beautiful! The banks of the Thames were lit up and the river looked lovely with the white flakes swirling over the reflected images of buildings and street lights. We finally made it to the Tate, where we (well, Josh and I) enjoyed the collection for a while, and then decided to brave the cold again and find dinner. We ate some great fish and chips at a pub with a couple of cold glasses of Budvar, and then returned to the hostel to finally retire after a ridiculous amount of wakefulness.

The next day we left early, heading to Leicester Square to get ½ price tickets for a play in West End that evening. After somehow getting lost making the 5 minute walk from the tube to the booth, we finally broke down and got a map, which, given Justin’s stunning display of directional ineptitude the night before, was a relief. From there we went to take a quick peek at Buckingham Palace, staying only long enough to take a picture and say we'd seen it. We then headed over to the Tower of London and spent some quality time with a beefeater on a tour before exploring the place on our own. Being somewhat fascinated by that crazy bloke, Henry VIII, I thoroughly enjoyed treading the same ground he once walked on, and seeing the very spot he rid himself of 2 of his wives. Also, his armor was hysterical, with its giant codpiece – he certainly didn’t lack for pride. We saw where the daughter of one of his doomed wives, Elizabeth, entered for her imprisonment in the White Tower, and also toured through the tower itself. I could go on, but as many don’t share my interest in such things, I’ll leave it with saying that it was a supremely interesting afternoon. After that, we went to St. Paul’s Cathedral, and lucked into arriving at about the same time the choir sang an evening service. We couldn’t stay long, but it was really nice to sit in such an awe inspiring place and listen to what sounded like angels singing.

After St. Paul’s, we booked it over to Westminster to see Parliament and Big Ben, took a few pictures, and then rushed to SoHo to grab dinner before the show. We ended up finding a really great Indian restaurant where we all scarfed down as much bahkti (not sure of the spelling…) and nan as we could in the limited time we had. We headed to Gielgud theatre and settled in to watch Agatha Christie’s ‘And Then There Where None’, a dark and deadly murder mystery. I won’t tell you the end, but we were all a little stunned. But it was very good. All that was left was a final beer and then we had to hit the hay as we had a very early morning.

Which gets me (sort of) to where I currently am, sitting in an internet café in Barcelona, having only arrived a couple of hours ago from London after an exhausting morning. Our flight left at 7:30, but in order to get to Luton in time, we had to have a cab pick us up at 4:30 to be there for a 5:00 bus to the airport. AM. Just to be clear. So, the cab arrives and we wedge ourselves in among the bags, knowing that even at this ungodly hour we are cutting it close. The first thing that happens? The driver turns on the GPS system. To get to Victoria Station. From London Bridge. Our concern mounts as he makes about 4 u-turns within the first 5 minutes of the trip. 45 minutes later, after playing with the GPS, apologizing that he’s new to the area, and stopping twice to ask random passerby for directions, he hails us a cab that can actually get us there. By this time, we’re further away than when we started. He graciously comps us the trip (y’think?) and we speed off, pretty much convinced that we’ve missed the plane, but figuring we may as well go and see if we can catch the next one. We arrive at Victoria Station, and load the bus, Justin loudly venting about the cab and the bus driver laughingly telling us not to worry, he’ll get us out of London quicker than the cab got us there. He assures us that we should be there by about 6:40. Check-in closes at 7.

Luckily, he was true to his word, and by the time we got through to the check in counter it was 6:55. Just in the nick of time. Hungry and tired, but relieved, we boarded the plane, arranging here in Barcelona in a few hours. We’ve checked in, and are now killing time until they get the clean linens so we can take a much needed shower and nap before roaming the town this afternoon.

Crap, this was long. I’ll upload pics of some of our adventures later, when I’m not getting charged an exorbitant sum to do it.