One day in London

What do you do when you have only one full day in London?

It helps if shopping is not a priority. Many of my pasts days in London were occupied with hitting one shopping venue after the next. It was fun, if exhausting, but now I have all that stuff and don't need much more. (Don't need some of that, either.) Plus, it's Thursday, and if I wanted to go to, say, antiques markets, I would be out of luck, because Thursday is not a good day for the markets.

I ran in Regent's Park before breakfast. Not quite as early as planned, and as I stopped frequently to take pictures, I didn't get back to the hotel until almost 8:30. Breakfast closes at 9. You can believe that my mother was pissed. But I put on a burst of speed and was showered, dressed, hair-dried and in the breakfast room by 8:45.

But somehow the energy that took me out running and got me ready in record time dissipated over the meal, and by the time we left the breakfast room and I checked email, both of us needed just a little bit of a rest before heading out. So we retired to our rooms to recline just a bit until the room cleaners kicked us out.

I didn't have a set schedule, or any plan at all, so it wasn't a problem that we didn't even leave the hotel until after 11. We walked down the street to the Russell Square Station and hopped on the tube to Piccadilly Circus. That's always a good place to start.

When we emerged from the Underground into Piccadilly Circus, I was startled at the lack of crowds. I don't remember ever being in Piccadilly Circus when it wasn't swarming with people. Was it the recession keeping people away? Or simply that it is March, pre-spring break, and my last visit was in June, always a busier time? We walked around the Eros statue, taking a few pictures. Of course, it is never so deserted that someone doesn't walk into or interfere with your picture-taking!

As I was taking a picture down Piccadilly (the street), a young man asked me if I would take a picture of him and his friend. I figured that they must have figured I was a safe bet not to take off with their camera.* They stood in front of the Eros statue (how sweet) and I took one horizontal and one vertical shot, hoping that at least one would be frame-worthy.

As I returned the camera, the young man asked, rather formally, if he could return the favor. I considered just a brief moment, then called my mother to come for a picture. I handed our camera over, thinking briefly that this could be the best scam ever (ask someone to take your picture with your nice looking camera, then offer to take one with theirs and run off with it instead). He did not run off, and now we have quite a nice photo of my mother and me in front of Eros.

From Piccadilly we headed down Haymarket, as this is the best way I know to get over to Trafalgar Square. A look at the National Gallery is mandatory. Going inside is optional.**

Once again, I felt like the crowds were curiously lacking. But maybe it was just early in the day.

This was now turning into a walking tour of favorite London sights. I opted not to head down the Mall to Buckingham Palace, but instead turned down Whitehall towards Westminster, Big Ben, and the Thames. My mother, who was still tired, started getting a little grumbly about the wandering with no apparent destination. She kept trying to pin me down over where we were going. My answers—we are going towards Big Ben, we are going along Embankment—were curiously unsatisfactory to her. But she followed. What else could she do?

I did have a bit of a plan. I thought we could walk along the river approximately to Waterloo Bridge, then cut back into the Strand. Before getting quite that far we walked into the Embankment and Victoria Gardens, and paused to sit on a bench for a few moments. We were just about at the Jubilee Bridge, a walking bridge that crosses the river on either side of the Hungerford Railway Bridge, and my mother abandoned her recalcitrance and agreed to walk onto the bridge to get some good photo ops.*** We took numerous pictures of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben; the London Eye; me; and various combinations of the above. We were seeking the perfect picture. While we may not have accomplished that, my mother liked this windswept one of me.

Despite my intentions, we were unable to get to the Strand from the Embankment near Waterloo Bridge (you have to actually be on the bridge), so we kept going, looking for an escape route. It came at Somerset House, where we entered one of the buildings at the Embankment level and was able to take a lift up to the Strand level. This was a part of Somerset House I had not been in, housing a design center and some other things. We left quickly, not wanting to feel obligated to make a donation, and crossed the courtyard and passed the Cortauld Institute to get back to the street.

By that point we were both ready for a break, which would mean a place to sit and have a little something. So we hopped on a bus that was headed toward Piccadilly Circus (as most buses going down the Strand are). It's really only a short distance, but with all the stops and delays, it was a rather long bus ride.

I wasn't sure where to go, but walking down Piccadilly seemed like a good plan. After a quick visit to Waterstone's (and the purchase of three books), we came to Fortnum and Mason, always a favorite stop. The last time we were there they were undergoing renovation, but now it was all complete and the store was restored to the heights of elegance.

Once of the new additions to F&M is a cafe called the Parlour on the first floor. It specialized in ice cream treats (as in "ice cream parlour," get it?) but also has other light foods, tea, and most importantly, scones and clotted cream. We decided to each have an open-face smoked chicken sandwich (for nourishment) and to split an order of scones. When the scones arrived they were quite petite—a little smaller than I'd expected, to be truthful—but they came with an amazingly ginormous scoop of the most luscious yellow clotted cream. It was thick, heavy, sticky and the very essence of creamy, and every bit of it went on those little scones. I regret nothing!

After the scones and cream we did a little shopping in the new and improved F&M (okay, I am not completely cured of shopping). We were entranced by some appliqued tea cosies (and egg cup cosies) and I skulked around taking pictures with my camera phone.**** We had some idea of making our own versions for gifts at home. We shall see.... In the meantime, we bought "samples" to bring home. Down on the ground floor I also bought a bunch of miniature tins of tea, to use in gift bags for the various tea parties I am committed to putting on this spring. And some silver dragees, just because they're beautiful. But that was all.

And that was certainly enough to make a day. We walked the remaining blocks to Green Park Station, past the Ritz Hotel,***** and rode the tube back to our rather less ritzy but welcoming hotel.

For a little more of our day, check out the pictures here.


*Little did they know I am a runner! Oh, who am I kidding. They were both young and slender, they would have caught me in a minute.

**They do have very nice public restrooms, though, should the need arise. And as the National Gallery is free, and a sight to be seen even without the displays, a visit inside is worth your while if you have the time and the inclination.

***She also discovered the elevator which carried us up and down to the bridge and street. I didn't object. My legs were curiously tired and my ankle and achilles tendon were quite tender today.

****I can't download them until I get home, however.

*****And past Richoux and Patisserie Valerie, two other places we could go for tea in future if we were looking for somewhere to go that wasn't a hotel or a department store.

In which the best part of the train trip was the train

I have a feeling that I am not going to be as good a travel blogger on this trip as I was last time around. Partly because (so far) I feel less prolific and inspired, for the moment, at least. And partly because last time I was not obsessed with reading the Twilight series.* (Although I just finished New Moon—after starting it yesterday, 563 pages consumed like a carton of ice cream, one delicious, addictive bowlful after the next—so unless I go out and buy a copy of Eclipse, I'm off the stuff until I get home.)

Yesterday was pretty much lost to travel and recovery. We landed in London at midday, got to the hotel around 1:30 or so, and ended up resting away a good part of the afternoon (and starting New Moon). It was all I could do to get up at 3:30 or 4:00. I had that sick, heavy feeling you get after napping too long—but I hadn't slept very much, so I think it was just the opposite, my body was still craving more rest.

I went downstairs** and convinced my mother we need to go out for a bit. At the very least we needed to find something for dinner. So we took a walk down Marchmont Street to the Brunswick Center. This used to*** be a rather dingy shopping center with a Safeway and a few shops, but some years ago it was refurbished with a shiny new Waitrose supermarket and a bunch of nicer shops and restaurants, including a Starbucks.

We made a circuit around the shops—nothing called my name—and headed into Waitrose to ogle the English foodstuffs. Grocery stores are good entertainment, and I thought we might pick up some dinner there as well. They had a tasty looking selection of prepared sandwiches and salads (which we ended up getting), but first we took a tour around the store, salivating over the variety of cakes and sweets and biscuits, not to mention all the varieties of cream.****

That was pretty much the extent of our outing. Oh, except that I used the Cash Point by Waitrose to get pounds with my newly acquired debit card. You just put in a secret number and it spits out money, can you imagine that? Yes, I realize I'm living a little behind the times.

So much for the first day in London. The rest of the evening was eating, watching TV (nothing good on), reading, and eventually sleeping.

One thing that we did accomplish Tuesday night was making a bit of a plan for Wednesday. Although we are not the rail travel addicts that my father is, my mother and I decided to go on one train trip with him to max out our rail passes (good for travel on four days, three of which are already committed to getting to Bath, Penzance, and eventually back to London). We agreed to go to Carlisle, which is near the Scottish border, and a long ride on the Virgin train line.

Wednesday morning I was up pretty early, just after 6:00, to go running. This was the first time I'd been in London with my Garmin watch, so finally I had a way to really measure those elusive distances. The first thing I learned was that it is almost exactly a quarter mile from the Harlingford Hotel to Euston Station (by way of the Woburn Walk shortcut). This is good to know for purposes of going to Euston Station, but not much of a run! Good thing I wasn't stopping there.

Next, on to Regent's Park along Euston Road. Yet another conveniently measured distance—a mile from the hotel to the east entrance of the park. That's pretty much what I had expected all along, maybe a little on the shy side. The big question has always been the distance around or through the park. In the past I've spent a lot of time searching the web for the definitive answer on how far it is around Regent's Park. The problem is, that depends on exactly what route you take! Today I started out on the outer circle, but eventually ended up on the perimeter outside of the park. I followed that outer sidewalk past the London Zoo, where I turned back into the park and followed the Broad Walk back to the east gate. The distance for that circuit, by the way, was 2.6 miles. The return trip to the hotel brought me to about 4.7 miles. Even though it was getting late, I didn't want to stop until I hit five miles. So I took an extra turn around the crescent and added a couple blocks at the other end, managing to end up at the doorstep of the hotel just after hitting 5.0. (Today's pictures from Regent's Park here. For a summer visit to Regent's Park, check out this love letter post from 2007!)

I managed to zip in and out of the shower in record time (not too hard when the shower consists of a mere dribble, nothing you want to linger in), and get dressed and dry my hair (no curling iron with me) by 8:15. Just enough time for a small bite***** in the dining room before heading to Euston Station to catch the train.

As I was selecting my clothes I realized (once again) that despite my packing dramas, I really could happily get by the whole trip by wearing just what I wore today.****** Which was jeans and a slightly gathered Lilla P charcoal grey long-sleeved T with a tissue weight black turtleneck underneath (which could be eliminated on warmer days). Add my khaki jacket (which I didn't use today), and a pair of easy black pants in case I don't want to wear jeans, and I would be set. And probably happy. And not carrying such a heavy suitcase! Oh well. I'm going to wear something different tomorrow anyway.

At Euston we got our rail passes validated then waited for our platform number to be posted. About half an hour before departure time, Platform 13 was announced and we surged to the gate.

As we were about to hop onto a first class carriage, an attendant advised us that the whole car was booked for a football team, and we should go to the next car. So we did. Then in that car, a well-dressed gentleman told us that carriage was reserved for the football team. As was the next. This was quite frustrating, as he directed us back to the original car we'd been turned away from! He assured us it had all been sorted, so we sat in seats marked reserved and hoped we didn't get thrown off the train (we didn't) or out of our seats (ditto).

Our biggest coup in this day of train travel was that we ate all our meals for free. In addition to whatever breakfast anyone had had at the hotel, complimentary meals came with the seats. I ordered the English Breakfast, as I'd “only” had a bite at the hotel. Then at around noon, the trolley came around with sandwiches. We weren't hungry yet but each took one for later.

Of course, where we would eat became a question when we arrived to rain in Carlisle. A wet bench hardly seemed appealing! Nor did Carlisle, as we marched around in the heavy drizzle. I may have become a bit snappish. I cheered up, however, upon spotting a Starbucks. Not so much for the coffee, but for a warm, dry place to hang out, maybe eat lunch.

Which is in fact what we did, taking our drinks upstairs where we ate sandwiches, read, and whiled away some of the afternoon. My dad eventually left to go check out a museum, but my mother and I were content to lounge in the armchairs (and, for me, read New Moon). At 3:15 we met up to head back to the station and catch the 3:49 train to London.*******

Once on the train, out came the sandwich trolley again! But not being complete pigs, and after ascertaining that they would be serving a hot dinner later on, we passed on this round of food. We partook instead at 6:00, for the dinner service. My mother and I opted for the smoked salmon and sundried tomato rigatoni (it was yum), and my father went all modest with an egg salad sandwich. Both of which were followed by a tasty chocolate mousse dessert. (And if I need a late night snack, I have a strawberry muffin tucked in my bag!) (Pictures from the train trip here.)

The train route passed sort of through the Lake District, and although we saw no lakes, the views from the train were scenic. I had not been anywhere near the Lake District since an ill-fated stopover after law school. It was in August, which is a bad time to go to England period, but even worse for the Lake District, which is overrun by tourists (including the English) at the best of times... and August is not the best of times. I haven't been back since, although I did see Miss Potter (while I was in England in 2007, as a matter of fact). If I ever were to go to the Lakes again, I would want a car to get off the beaten track (if there is any unbeaten track), and I would probably avoid the height of summer!

We got back into London around 7:30 p.m., and the quarter mile to the hotel seemed a lot longer at the end of a long day than it did in the morning! Since we are boring quiet folk, we were quite happy to end the day there. Leave the pub crawling and theatre going to the young. Or at least the ones who weren't up at 6:00 to go running.


*Thanks, Corey, for introducing me to this paperback crack. You know what this leads to, don't you? The hard stuff—hardbacks.

**My parents are on the second floor and I am on the third floor (which in American translation means third and fourth). There is a huge difference. To get to my tiny little single room garret at the very furthest reaches of the hotel you have to climb an additional narrow, winding flight of stairs. I don't mind the stairs but it is a pain to haul suitcases up and down them! But I intentionally chose to have that room. I wanted a room facing the street and garden square below (way below), and the only lower level front side single room was described by the desk clerk as “very small”—and that's saying something. My only serious regret about the remote room is that the wireless signal does not reach up there. So I have to go down to the lobby, or at least a landing, to access email and the internet. Which is a royal pain.

***When I was in college.

****A foodaholic's dream.

*****Okay, two small scones with butter and jam, and some tinned grapefruit. I love tinned grapefruit.

******Which I am about to describe. Even though this is not that blog.

*******Which was an earlier train than we had planned. But I had no real desire to stay in Carlisle longer. There were tons of restaurants, but we weren't looking for food. There were shops (which we eventually did find), but nobody had a yen for shopping. The historical and scenic areas seemed rather inaccessible this early in the year, not to mention unappealing in the weather. Carlisle is a nice enough town, but it is a big town, and other than London, Bath, and certain other wonderful English cities, I really prefer the villages. Which are pretty inaccessible by train. But we do enjoy the train trips!

London, Standard Time

It's not Daylight Savings Time here in London yet, so strangely we are only seven hours ahead of the folks at home. I haven't yet determined whether the time will change while we are here, or not. A simple Google search (or, ahem, asking someone, like the desk clerk at the hotel) should resolve that question.*

I'm a bit tired as it is 6:45 a.m. at home and we've been traveling since yesterday afternoon. Here is the blizzard we encountered in Everett before we left on Monday, and here is my post while waiting at SeaTac.

I could write about the flight (half empty) or the new video-on-deamand system on the plane (cool), but I don't have the energy just now. I'm in that post-arrival slump, worn down by a long flight and lack of sleep, and slightly less than thrilled with anything. So maybe I'll go read the book I didn't read on the plane (due to the video system) and rest up just a bit.

*The answer is Sunday, March 29.

Leaving on a jet plane (tomorrow)

In about ten minutes I will be able to check in and obtain seat assignments for our flight to London tomorrow. If you think that means I am all packed and ready to go, you are wrong. I am suffering from my typical, perpetual, packing procrastination. Not a new experience. It dates back to my college years and occurs whether I am going to Europe or to Canada for a weekend.

I just took a break from my procrastination post to try the online check-in, and have encountered a loop of frustration. British Airways requires you to provide passport information in advance, but when I attempted to do so I got a message that the system was not working, try again later. However, I can't check in or get seats until that information is provided. So although online check-in is "open," I CAN'T CHECK IN!!!

Better go pack. But before I do, a few notes to update.

Yesterday I did my last long run before the half marathon, 10.2 miles on the Centennial Trail near Snohomish. This was actually a fundraising event for the YMCA's Invest in Youth Program, where you raise or donate money and run as many five-mile loops as you choose to. I hope somebody besides me brought some money, because I got the sense that the participants were more interested in running ultra-long distances than raising money. I'm probably wrong, I'm sure they chipped in. Just because one of the volunteers seemed surprised when I handed him a check, meant nothing I am sure.

Anyhow, I was one of the few people there who seemed to be planning to run less than at least a marathon-length distance. I came planning to run ten miles (with enough time allotted for that), and that's what I did. I got there a little after 10 a.m., just in time to run into Julie Bell, who I've seen at so many races over the last couple years. She was finishing up ten miles, so that's one other. The friend that she was running with wanted to do a couple more miles so she asked if she could run along with me for a mile (then she'd turn back and quit).

I said sure, although I warned her I planned to be slow. She said that was fine, she just wanted the distance. Now you'd think she might be a little tired after the ten miles, but on the other hand she was also all warmed up, and I had just come straight from my car (and pretty much my bed before that). We started out at what felt like a pretty decent clip to me. Then she started talking to me, and asking me questions. It was all I could do to maintain the pace and answer in short sentences, while I was trying to get my legs and cardiovascular system going. We finished that first mile in just under ten minutes. Shortly afterward we said our goodbyes and she turned around.

I realized, after she was gone, that I had been running without my ipod, so now that I was alone I pulled it out and turned it on. Nothing like music in your ears to mask the sound of your own breathing. The good thing about starting out faster than planned is that it set the tone for me. I was able to continue to maintain between a 10:15 and 10:30 pace even on my own. This made me happy because that was the non-race pace that I had usually maintained last summer, before my downslide began. I did not consider this event a race, because nobody was running against anybody else, many of us started at different times, and there was no specific finish.

The turnaround was just past 2.5 miles, and I headed back toward the trailhead to finish my first lap. The "back" part of the out and back was slightly easier, because although the path seemed pretty level, it was slightly uphill on the out portion, and therefore slightly downhill on the way back. That was nice.

At the trailhead I stopped at the bathroom, dropped off my gloves because I was getting warm, and started out again. Second verse, same as the first. I began to recognize people as we passed each other going opposite directions. Usually we would wave, sometimes the other person would say "good job" to me (I was never quick enough to say it back).

On my second and final return trip I caught up with an older woman who was walking and talking to another runner who was passing her. Both of them were doing marathon distances ("just" a marathon, each said), and were doing some sort of walk-run combination. The older woman said, I think, she was doing 60-40, which I assumed meant 6/10 of a mile running, and 4/10 walking.

I met up with her just as I began mile 10 on my Garmin, and she started running with me and talking to me. She organizes some kind of long-distance trail run in Kirkland (or somewhere like that) and much prefers trails to pavement, even the gentle blacktop of this path. As we ran together I was able to talk much more easily than in my first mile, yet when I looked at my watch we were doing a 9:30 pace. Clearly warming up makes a difference.

After a ways together she said goodbye--apparently going into a walk phase--and I finished the remaining half mile or so. I was definitely glad to be finished, but felt pretty good about the run.

This morning, even with the one-hour "spring forward" time change, Rod and I were up before the crack of dawn to go skiing up at Stevens. The Pass had multiple inches of new snow, and shockingly, there was even an inch of snow on the ground here from a late night or early morning snowfall (in March!).

In addition to the fresh snow, we were treated to shockingly blue skies and bright sunshine, warm enough that I felt overheated working my way through the soft snow. Rod was excited and claimed it was very light, but it made me a little nervous. My nervousness was well founded when, on one run, I inadvertantly wandered too far off the side and got stuck in deep "powder."

This was a bit of a freak-out experience for me. I don't want to relive it (much) now, but I will say that it took a long time for me to get out, and there was a certain amount of hyperventilating and crying, as well as a fair amount of swearing. Afterwards I was still shaken and skiied badly for at least a couple more runs, until I regained my equilibrium by having lunch. (Funny how that works.)

After lunch some clouds had rolled in and we got some snow. Still, even the snowflakes were light and fluffy, and didn't really disrupt the skiing the way snowfall sometimes does. But by very early afternoon, my quads had had enough. Yesterday's ten miles plus somewhat strenous skiing did me in. At one point I literally thought, I just don't want to make another turn; luckily that was in a spot where I could just point myself downhill and go!

So I've done lots of stuff this weekend (I didn't even mention the auction fundraiser and dinner we attended last night); everything but pack, really. And, now, check in for the flight. I made a second effort and the system is still down. Better go do that packing and try again later. I am sure my mother will blame me if we get bad seats! Okay, better try again now, just in case it's working. Then pack.

The final countdown

Well, it's less than a week now before we leave for England. Tick tock, tick tock! All plans are laid. Most importantly, hotel reservations are made!

I'm quite excited about our planned accommodations. Our first three nights in London will be at my long-time London pied-à-terre , the Harlingford Hotel near Russell Square in Bloomsbury, where I first stayed as a college student in 1986. Then in Bath, for the weekend of the Half Marathon, we will be staying at a bed and breakfast called Meadowland, a new destination for me. I found Meadowland after discovering that Haydon House (where I've been staying since 1995) has closed. However, Meadowland is not only in the same neighborhood as Haydon House, it appears (from the website) remarkably similar in style and appearance! Finally, the day after the run, we will take the train to Penzance for three days of R & R by the sea. We're staying at the Abbey Hotel, which I located through Alistair Sawday's Special Places to Stay.

I have my new passport (replaced after my purse was stolen in December), a general idea of what I want to pack, and kitty care lined up for the ones left at home (Rod and my cats, or more precisely, Rod for my cats). The only snag in the preparations is that I have misplaced my camera and my desultory efforts to locate it have so far been to no avail. I keep telling myself, it's got to be somewhere!

Other than that difficulty (and the numerous other little tasks that need to be accomplished), I'm ready!

Snow falling on London

London hasn't seen snow like this since the last scene of Bridget Jones's Diary.



Depending on which news source you read, since Sunday London has seen up to three, six, even eight inches of new snow accumulate. Schools were closed, traffic jammed, and complaints about lack of snowplows ran rampant. (Just like our Seattle snowfall before Christmas!)

But just like here, the unusual volume of snow has also piqued excitement and delight amongst Londoners more accustomed to weather that is grey and damp than white and fluffy. Sledding (sledging) on Primrose Hill, skiing on snow-covered sidewalks, and general winter merriment has ensued.



Here are some snowy London scenes, borrowed from the BBC.

London snow is not unheard of in literature. In addition to the ubiquitous romantic snow scenes in movies like Bridget Jones's Diary, poet Robert Bridges wrote "London Snow" back in 1890, telling of seven inches of new snow blanketing the city.

When men were all asleep the snow came flying,
In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;
Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:
Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;
Hiding difference, making unevenness even,
Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.
All night it fell, and when full inches seven
It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,
The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;
And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness
Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:
The eye marvelled - marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;
The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;
No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,
And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.
Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,
They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze
Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;
Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;
Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder!'
'O look at the trees!' they cried, 'O look at the trees!'
With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,
Following along the white deserted way,
A country company long dispersed asunder:
When now already the sun, in pale display
Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below
His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.
For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;
And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,
Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:
But even for them awhile no cares encumber
Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,
The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber
At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken.

Bridges' lines foreshadowed the magical effect of snowfall on adults and children alike, as real life mirrored fiction (and poetry). Alas, no one has been yet been spotted running through the snow in knickers and trainers, or snogging Colin Firth on a snowy street corner!

Exchange rate drama!

Sometime this weekend the dollar-pound exchange rate dropped below $1.50. I know this because, when I was unable to sleep at 2:30 a.m. this morning, I hopped onto the computer and looked it up. $1.49 and decimals. I then sang myself to sleep with lullabies of "the pound is falling, the pound is falling."

When I last checked a bit ago, it was back to $1.50. Still, that's a number that hasn't been seen in years!

I've been debating in recent weeks how low the pound would need to go before it would make sense to take some money to a bank and exchange it (or buy English traveler's checks) in anticipation of next spring's trip. Not enough to fund the whole trip, but enough for cash spending money. Obviously I'd lose some on the exchange, so the deal would need to be pretty good.

Of course, that leads to dilemma number 2. What if the exchange rate is better in the spring? On the other hand, what if it is worse? Like it was in 2007 and 2006? Then I'd be kicking myself.

What will probably happen is that inertia will keep me from even making the decision to exchange or not exchange, and I'll end up just taking my chances in the spring. But I'm sure I'll be debating this question all along the way.