Nicole V. The Royal Mail (Round 1)

There comes a time in every person’s life, when the gloves come off. After months, days, maybe even years of suppressed anger and built-up tension, you finally decide that enough is enough. Conjuring up images of Tom Petty you say to yourself, “I won’t back down!”

My day of reckoning came earlier this week. My opponent: the Royal Mail. Not one person in particular, but Her Majesty’s Postal System—that’s right, the entire system (that includes you, too, FedEx)! You may wonder how, in four short months, I managed to seek the demise of an entire sector of the British service community. I can tell you it wasn’t easy, but it’s a battle I’ve been fighting since Thanksgiving Day.

Sometime late November I got the sense that my mom had sent us something. She was dropping very subtle hints, such as “Did you get anything in the mail today?” and “Are you sure you didn’t get anything from FedEx?” Each time I answered, “No.” Aside from a ton of repetitive bills filling us in on all stages of the payment process (even though we pay online) we hadn’t received anything of note.

Finally, on Thanksgiving Day, my mom had to share the big surprise. She’d sent us homemade cookies via overnight FedEx—a special delivery that came with a $100 price tag! The US FedEx worker not only helped her package the cookies, but also assured her that spending $100 on cookies was a justified act of love (I think he works on commission). He had also assured her they would arrive the day before Thanksgiving, already making them two days late. As it was, we didn’t have the cookies or even a note citing an attempted delivery. It was a perplexing mystery I couldn’t solve alone; so I called upon my trusted sidekick Josh Watson and opened the Case of the Missing Cookies.

After some serious sleuthing, we discovered that FedEx had come several times, but our buzzer was dead as a doornail (no pun intended). But if FedEx had come, where was the note? Why couldn’t we find a “We Were Here” message or sign that anyone had tried to deliver a package? Could it be that there was a Note Thief on the loose?

Before I jumped to conclusions and hired Scooby Doo, I called FedEx and asked if a note was left and if not, why? The FedEx rep responded with the following question: “What color is your door?” The question threw me completely off guard and I had no choice but to stammer in response. I wondered if this was a new self-help scheme—the follow up to What Color Is Your Parachute? Perhaps she was taking a few psychology classes and this was her conflict-resolution method.

Sensing my hesitation and confusion, she asked more specifically if my door was gray. Gray sounded right, so I said as much. To this she said, “That’s why we didn’t leave a note. You have a gray door and we can’t leave notes on gray doors—it’s the law.” Was this woman serious? What did she expect me to say to the most ludicrous excuse I’d ever heard in my life? Oh, okay, I see. We have a gray door, so we can’t receive packages. That clears everything up for me! Thanks!

My head was whirling and I was unable to regain composure. If this “law” is real and my buzzer is broken and my package is floating around in a delivery truck, how on Earth do I get my hands on these cookies? I felt like Cookie Monster and envisioned myself raging through London yelling, “Me want cookie!” Those were my treats and, by God, I was determined to get them.

I made another call to FedEx and asked if the driver could please phone me the next time he tried to redeliver. They were aware of my situation and seemed eager to oblige. And guess what? The following morning I actually got a call. A call to say the driver had just come by, but I didn’t answer the door so he left. I held my head in my hands and begged for divine intervention. I felt like reaching through the phone and shouting, “Didn’t I tell you my buzzer was broken?! Isn’t that the reason I asked for the driver to call in the first place?! Do you have a cognitive issue I should know about?!”

Of course I didn’t say any of that. I rationally re-explained my situation for the umpteenth time, trying in vain to remain calm. Desperate to get off the phone with the Cookie Lunatic, the rep assured me that he’d send the driver back in an hour. Two and a half hours later he still hadn’t come and I finally decided to throw in the towel. I’d gone 12 Rounds, fought the good fight, and it was time to raise the white flag. I wasn’t getting those cookies and I had to accept the fact that I’d been defeated.

I left our flat and didn’t return for several hours. I ran a few errands and worked on decreasing my spiked blood pressure. When I returned, I checked the mail (just for good measure) and started to take off my coat. That’s when the most remarkable thing happened—my phone rang. It was a FedEx driver claiming he was at my door! I couldn’t believe the timing of it all. I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. He had actually come and he had brought the cookies. It was, by this point, a Christmas Miracle!

After a week of detective work we closed the case, ate the cookies and celebrated our victory—and, in usual fashion, we let out guard down just a bit too soon. Around the time the last cookie had been eaten and all was forgotten, we received a letter in the mail from FedEx. I actually thought it might have been an apology note, a refund or maybe even a gift card toward future deliveries. I excitedly opened the letter to find… a BILL! We owed the British government 30 pounds (re: $45) in taxes for enjoying US-produced cookies in the UK. To review, my mom paid $100 for overnight shipping, yet the cookies weren’t delivered for a week and now I, the recipient, had to pay taxes. I wanted to shout, “No taxation without representation!” and spill tea and scones into the Thames. As therapeutic as that would’ve been, I couldn’t risk getting deported. So I kept my tea in the cabinet, paid the bill, cursed the system and banned all parcel delivery going forward.  

Let’s just say avoiding deliveries for a period of two years didn’t turn out to be a viable solution. Within a month I once again found myself at the mercy of the Royal Mail. My opponent was taunting me, begging me for a rematch, and I accepted. In the words of Rocky Balboa, “Going in one more round when you don't think you can—that's what makes all the difference in your life.” 

To be continued…

Bonne Année

Happy New Year folks, friends and all eight of my beautiful followers! I hope the start of 2011 has you feeling rested, rejuvenated and ready to tackle your resolutions. I originally resolved not make any this year. Not because I’m perfect and feel there’s nothing I could do to change, but because I find it hard to stick to something once I’ve decided to do it. Like when you buy a gym membership then never go back. But after a little escapade that followed a somewhat “challenging” trip to Paris (yes, I used the words challenging and Paris in the same sentence) I realized there was a virtue I could resolve to focus on this year. Appreciation! Here’s what led to the epiphany…

In case you’re wondering, Bonne Année means “Happy New Year” in French. I learned that last weekend when Josh and I took an impromptu trip to Paris. We didn’t quite make it in time to ring in 2011; in fact, we almost didn’t make it at all. With two days to go before the Big Countdown, we booked tickets to Paris on the last train of 2010. A nagging part of my brain babbled about the extravagance of it all. We’d only just returned from our trip to Edinburgh. Who did we think we were, the Hiltons? I listened earnestly, and then told that little nag to sit down and shut up! Paris is Paris and if your husband calls and says, “Hey, wanna go to Paris for the weekend?” you say, “Yes, yes I do!”

Tickled with glee I did everything I could to prepare. I packed, cleaned the fridge, emptied the trash, washed and folded two loads of laundry, dusted and rotated the coach cushions. You’d think I was awaiting the arrival of the Queen. Before I left I did the usual check: wallet, keys, money, phone. I even brought the laptop fully charged and two DVDs, along with a Madeleine Wickham novel and my Iphone updated with three new CDs. All this for a two-and-a-half-hour train ride and two-night stay. I had everything I needed and more… save for one, teensy, tiny, minute belonging—my passport!

I didn’t realize I’d forgotten my little blue book until we were going through bag check 15 minutes before the train was scheduled to depart. I panicked and pleaded with security, tumbling all of my personal information onto the counter top—my license, social security card, credit cards. Not only was I willing to offer myself for a full cavity search, but I was also prepared to make a sizable donation to his personal bank account. Blah, blah, blah, French police, blah, blah, blah, out of our hands, blah, blah, blah, always bring your passport when traveling to another country. Long and short, he was not letting me on that train.

The gentleman at the ticket counter took mercy on our sad souls and my welling eyes and switched our tickets for the following morning. So we went home, popped a bottle of Veuve and watched the Thames fireworks from our flat. All in all, it wasn’t a bad New Years Eve. I actually would’ve been perfectly content had I not completely blown our chance of ringing in 2011 beside the Eiffel Tower in my new blue dress. C'est la vie.

Big Ben at Midnight (via the TV)

Fireworks from our Flat

We went to bed excited that the trip was still upon us. To be extra safe we both set our Iphones for a 5:30am wake-up call. We wouldn’t want to miss another train. Haha! Famous last words! Let’s just say I wasn’t laughing when I lazily rolled over to check the time and saw that it was 6:47am. I thought I was in the Twilight Zone. What time is it? What day is it? Don’t we have to be somewhere in 15 minutes? Didn’t we both set alarms? With realization came one of those Home Alone moments, where we jumped out of bed, raised our hands in the air and said, “We slept in”. Leave it to the Apple Iphone to be a pioneer of digital technology, but to have an annual New Year’s Day alarm clock glitch.

Surprisingly, we made it to the station in the nick of time. Sloppy hair, unshaven, unshowered, with rolling suitcases and shoes in a plastic bag, I’m sure we looked more like vagrants than world travelers. But the important thing was that we made it on the train and arrived in Paris.

Chocolates at the Christmas Market

We had a lovely afternoon moseying along the Champs-Élysées, underneath the Eiffel Tower and past the Christmas Market. It was the sweetest reward one could ask for. We stopped for lunch at a quaint bistro, sharing a croque-madame and meat-and-cheese platter while the bartender poured us a friendly house red. Our lack of plans allowed us to linger and talk, and watch the rowdy group of French-folk at the neighboring table slosh their champagne and merrily sing about something I couldn’t understand.

Eiffel Tower

Trying to get a pic in front of the Eiffel Tower

Croque-Madame 

Meat-and-Cheese Platter

French Waiter

The evening proved to be just as magical as we strolled by the Moulin Rouge and over to Montmartre. We walked as the rain sprinkled our heads and cold nipped at our feet, pointing out the adorable cafes and artfully shaped breads, wrought-iron balconies set against cream-colored buildings and sparkling views of the city. 

The Square at Montmartre

Moulin Rouge

Eventually we ended up at a little corner restaurant. Its façade, decorated with a tangle of green vines, looked like something out of a fairly tale. It was all going so well and we were finally able to put the past debacles aside with a laugh. That is until Josh’s thin esophagus decided to act up. No, that’s not a typo, Josh has a thin esophagus, which means it’s exactly as it sounds—it’s thinner than it should be. When he eats too fast or eats foods that are too rich, the aforementioned food painfully gets stuck in the esophageal pipe. It’s usually nothing more than a glitch in his system, so to speak. Like the Iphone, it quickly fixes itself and goes back to normal. But in this case, also like the Iphone, it wasn’t going away without causing a scene.

After about 20 minutes of looking into Josh’s crimson face, I came to the conclusion that we might be taking our first trip to a Parisian emergency room. Worried, I asked what I could do to help. I offered to kick him in the duodenum to force his stomach open, but aside from making him laugh it really didn’t prove to be a viable solution. Several times the wait staff popped by to make sure Josh was okay and didn’t need a Heimlich expert. I’m sure they were dying for us to leave, as we were probably scaring the customers. On the way out, I thought about telling the girl next to me to stay away from the filet. Just a little esophagus joke!

Without help from the paramedics, the food eventually unclogged and we left the restaurant. Josh hadn’t really eaten much and I didn’t have a French pastry, but before an anvil fell on our heads or a meteorite dropped from the sky, we thought it best that we go back to the hotel. Josh curled into bed and passed out. I, still raring to go, settled in with a bag of peanut M&M’s and a mini-bar bottle of red wine.

Our Hotel

As I lay in bed with my novel and my nightcap, I realized that with everything that had gone wrong, there was still nowhere in the world I’d rather be. Even though the trip wasn’t a total success—and I complained and cursed and cried at times—we managed to have our moments of fun. We’re getting out there and seeing the world, and that’s what’s important. While our experiences may not always be perfect, they’re still experiences. I feel blessed to even have this opportunity. And as I think about all that’s happened and changed since January 2010—graduating from the Natural Gourmet, changing my career, moving to London, exploring Europe—I can honestly say that life, in and of itself, is something to appreciate. So in closing I offer these resolutions: appreciate life, live each day to the fullest and don’t forget your passport!

Travel Blog About Prague

Two weeks ago Josh and I planned our first Euro-trip to Prague. At the time, the extent of my knowledge on the city was how it was pronounced, where it was located and how long it took to fly there from London. Regardless of the fact that I knew bupkas, I was still eager to go. “Prague” had such a lovely ring to it. I pictured us wowing crowds at an art gallery opening saying things like, “Yes, well, when Josh and I were in Praaaaague…”

Being it our first vacation from London, we spent most of the time leading up to our getaway answering the less exciting questions: How many bags does Easy Jet allow you to take? How are we going to get to Gatwick Airport? What and where is Gatwick Airport? How much longer are we going to have to put our liquids in little plastic bags, because it’s really getting annoying? Etc. By the time we had squared away the logistics, we only had a few days to figure out why we were really going to Prague. We hadn’t the slightest idea what we were going to do, see, or most especially, eat!

I can tell you that after some Internet exploration and a three-day vacation, I am not only in love with the city, but I have newfound respect for it. To begin, Prague is the capital and biggest city in the Czech Republic, and is referred to as the “Heart of Europe”. It’s home to the some of the most breathtaking and cultural sights on the continent, including the Charles Bridge, Astronomic Clock, Prague Castle and St. Vitus Cathedral. It’s also composed of architectural styles indicative of the Gothic, Baroque and Renaissance periods, which add a stunning element of visual diversity to the landscape.  

What I think is most inspiring is the fact that these ancient landmarks and structures have managed to survive extensive periods of hardship and destruction, much of which occurred in the Twentieth Century. It’s remarkable that this burgeoning, whimsical city was only freed from Communist rule in 1989, and in such a short time, transformed into one of the most popular and majestic tourist spots in Europe. It’s a testament to the reliance of its people, who I might add are jovial, friendly and fierce in the kitchen…  

Which brings me to my next point—the food and beer! I can honestly say that I am now a full-fledged beer snob. The dark ales, which I preferred, balanced notes of chocolate, coffee and caramel, while the lagers were light and honey-flavored. Each beer was superb and never disappointed, even if it was just the house tap. I’d read that as the French pair wine with food, the Czech pair beer with food. As it turns out, this is so, so true. We had appetizers of pickled cheese and potato pancakes, which perfectly complemented our pints. Main dishes consisted of what I’d classify as heavy winter food—bread dumplings, sauerkraut, beef goulash and pork by the plenty.

The Old Town Square fast became one of our favorite locations for visiting and eating. At one stall, baguettes were carved out on a spike, making a pocket just the right size for hot dogs and ketchup. (It’s a trade secret I’d like to bring to the US.) Other stalls included spits that roasted whole pigs and a life-sized cast-iron skillet that was used to sauté boiled potatoes with chunks bacon and chopped onions. Desserts of rolled dough were roasted on spinning skewers and finished with powdered sugar and cinnamon. When the wind picked up, there was no better way to get warm than with a cup of hot wine flavored with mulling spices. It was like being at the tailgating party of the century. If someone had brought out a football, we might’ve never left!