House Number 13

Alarm goes off at 6:15 a.m.

Kids off to school, and I am full of energy, which is not like me AT ALL.

Especially, at this time of day, but it is 11:15 in London - almost lunch time.  

While I was away, Charlie spent time at "Hotel Little River" ,
     where he became accustomed to four walks a day. 

Before my trip, I was becoming a bit neglectful of his leash time,  
     and vowed to make more of an effort, upon my return. 

Charlie is so happy when I put on his leash,
     that he is literally pushing himself off the wall, doing flips.

Leash!  Leash!  I LOVE my leash!  

Walk!  Walk!  I LOVE my walks! 

As we walk through the neighborhood, however 
     (Charlie trying to make his mark on every mailbox,
light pole, and street sign), 
      I find myself quite bored and uninspired by my surroundings,
and imagine my mornings in London.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After showering in the teeny tiny shower,
     and dressing without bumping into the walls,
my partner and I would take the two person elevator
down from "floor four" ( said in a British accent ),
into the cozy little lobby, where we would hand the friendly desk clerk our key.

What a great concept, by the way - drop the key off at the desk when you leave, 

     and pick it back up, upon return.      

 Not to mention, the key is attached to a twelve inch long 

Indian braided tassel - 

one that looks as if it was attached to the end of a grand scaled piece of drapery, 

     which makes it very easy to locate, 

and equally easy to not mistakenly walk out the door with  

(or, as they say in London - "take away").  

Open the doors to outside, and we are immediately placed amongst the living,
     where people are strolling to and fro, and up and down
the semi-quiet side street of London, just a block off the main drag,
where we walk in search of breakfast.

The hotel serves breakfast between 7 and 9 a.m., 

but we were only able to make it once, 

     as our East Coast minds told us that time of the morning was just 

TOO DAMN EARLY.   

  

My partner's parents live in a flat just a few blocks from the hotel,
     and after picking something up at a local market or restaurant
( fresh baguettes, smoked salmon, prosciutto and cheese,
                               fresh squeezed orange juice ),
we would walk towards house number 13, where we would share our food
     in return for French pressed coffee and good company.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So, as Charlie and I walk through our neighborhood in Fairfax,
     I imagine all of this.

We return to house number 4339, where there is nobody waiting.  

I cook myself some eggs,
     and drink my "pure & natural, never from concentrate" orange juice.

I do have a French press with which to make my coffee.

And, as I pour myself a cup, this brings me comfort and makes me happy,
     as do the memories of my trip,
which,
     like our morning fresh-squeezed orange juice and crusty baguettes,

are still fresh (in my mind).