Pu’u Hōkūʻula (a.k.a Buster Brown) rising from the mist.
True Neighbors
There has been an uproar in my hometown of Waimea regarding the large land purchases and huge philanthropic donations made by San Francisco based tech businessman Marc Benioff.
I recently had an e-mail exchange with a friend about Mr. Benioff’s questionable donations. Questionable because while he’s been very public about his donations, his other land purchases have been more secretive. My friend believes we shouldn’t criticize our neighbors, the Benioffs, since they have done so much for the community.
I take issue with the word “neighbor”.
Who is my neighbor?
When my family ran Fukushima Store, we had a farmer and his wife as neighbors. They would bring us a sack full of daikon and other vegetables from their fields. My parents would talk story with them. We’d reciprocate by stopping by their house on our way to Honoka’a and give them banana bread or cookies.
My mother continued this tradition of talking story – an island tradition – after my father died. I’d sometimes overhear her end of the conversation on an old fashioned land line phone, where callers have to pick up and put down a receiver. She would be talking to a neighbor in the driveway before ours. It they are both working in their yards, they’d take a break and talk story over the fence.
My mom would also send me to deliver cookies and fruit to our longtime neighbors. We have been neighbors for at least fifty years. We have built a rapport with them and have gotten to know them. A neighbor is not one who intimidates or bully others. That would create a sense of mis-trust.
Friendly horses at the Kalani Schutte District Park.
After reading the NPR article, two words come to mind describing Mr. Benioff’s behavior. Those words are unapproachable and aloof.
At the start of the interview with Mr. Benioff, Kerr mentioned that he had a Salesforce associate sit in on the interview via ZOOM. Mr. Benioff loved talking about his charitable donations. But when the reporter brought up the subject about his land purchases, he would fidget and avoid the subject. At one point, his associate intervened, saying Kerr can talk with the associate about the land purchases after the interview.
This associate played the role of what western journalists working in China, call a government minder –someone who monitors the entire interview. This is not how one “talks story” to build rapport. This is not how you come clean to the public.
Which leads to his aloof behavior.
While Mr. Benioff may understand the idea of ‘ohana, he does not understand the idea of “talking story” with our neighbors. If he had asked for community input regarding the purchase of the former Mamane Bakery property, perhaps he would have gotten a better reception. To just suddenly open a Jewish center – he has since retracted that statement saying that it’s a community center for everyone –without community feedback, shows that he is out-of-touch with his neighbors.
In that famous parable of the Good Samaritan from Luke 10, a Jewish leader asks Jesus who is my neighbor. Jesus then proceeds to tell the story of a man who is attacked on the road by thieves. The man is injured and left to die.
A priest sees the injured man. But he continues on his way. A Levite does the same.
But when a Samaritan sees the man, he stops and tends to the man’s injuries. He then takes the man to an inn and pays for the man’s expenses.
Jesus ends the story by forcing the leader to answer his own question.
“They one who shows mercy.”
I saw this mercy in action when we had our fire disaster in August of 2021. Our community emergency response team of which I serve on, was asked to help the county to open and run shelters in Waimea. I saw several flatbed trucks loaded with palettes of bottled water, parked in the parking lot of the Waimea Community Center. Men were unloading these palettes for distribution to evacuees. I also had teammates fielding calls from local thrift shop operators asking us what we needed.
“We need mattresses, pillows, blankets, and bed sheets,” said our team lead. “We’ll take whatever bedding you’ve got.”
These thrift shop operators came through. They opened up their storage and brought what they had over to the shelters.
These volunteers showed mercy. They are our neighbors. They are people that live on the street where I live. They are the people that I work with and go to church with. They are the people that I break bread with. These are my neighbors who I come into contact on a regular basis and who I trust.
So, who is my neighbor? It is someone who not only shows mercy to others. It is someone whom I can build a rapport. It is someone whom I can break bread with. It is someone who is willing to get dirty when the going gets tough. While it is nice to have a rich man donate chunks of money to charitable causes to benefit the community, a neighbor is someone I can trust.
Mr. Benioff is not that neighbor.
So, look to the family who lives next to you. Look to your co-workers who share your work space. Look to the person who sits next to you at church. When disaster strikes, these are the people who are most likely to respond.
These are my neighbors.
The former Kamuela Montessori/Mamane Bakery in Waimea.
Jesus says that we should forgive those who “trespass against us.” He also says to “love your neighbor as yourself.”
I’m sorry. But I’m having difficulty forgiving and loving neighbors who explode bombs in my backyard.
There is a family in my neighborhood that detonates illegal fireworks at odd times of the year. I could be cooking my lunch at 10 a.m. on March 20th, when boom! My floor shakes and I end up screaming. I have filed multiple complaints with the police, and I know that my more trustworthy neighbors have complained to the family’s landlord about their tenant’s behavior. For a while they did stop.
Until December 29th, 2023, when, at 9 p.m. they detonated an explosive, making my house vibrate and causing me to file another complaint with the police.
Every time this family explodes these bombs, it triggers my PTSD. They are triggering an event that I experienced back in the winter of 2008 in Xi’an, China.
February 2008
I spent fourteen years living in the land where gunpowder, the basic ingredient for fireworks, was invented. I have endured fourteen Lunar New Year celebrations where the entire country goes up in smoke.
Yet, none of them was as traumatic as 2008 when I lived in the ancient city of Xi’an, known for its Terra Cotta Warriors.
The city of Xi’an is divided into two parts; the ancient city, which includes the downtown area, and the modern city. They are separated by a square wall, the only completed wall in China.
Inside the wall in the heart of the city is the Muslim Quarter, Gulou (Drum Tower), and Zhonglou (Bell Tower). The wall has several gates on all sides, allowing cars and pedestrians to travel between the old city and the more modern area of Xi’an.
I lived inside the old city in the southwestern corner of the wall near a gate called Hanguangmen (Hanguang gate) in a residential neighborhood. My apartment complex consisted of three, five storied buildings at the north, west, and south of my block, while the east end was blocked by a separate complex. To enter, tenants must pass through a gate run by a guard.
In my complex was an open-air courtyard with trees, bushes, flowers, and benches for people to sit on.
Everyday I would take a bus from Hanguangmen to Zhonglou where I worked. The ride took at least twenty-five minutes, and I would always get to see the massive drums at Gulou.
Most schools I have worked at would allow me a week off for the Lunar New Year so that I could travel. Government run schools would give their students a month off.
Travel allowed me to avoid such noisy celebrations, and most hotels are in commercial areas where business owners are closing for the weeklong holiday.
Unfortunately, my school only gave its teachers two days off because when students are out from regular school, they all go to private language schools to keep up with their English.
Not enough time for me to travel.
My school closed two hours early on the eve of the Lunar New Year so that everyone could go home and be with their families. I boarded a bus and headed home. On the way, I could see families celebrating in Gulou by lighting those red firecrackers. In the distance I could see aerials in the sky.
From a safe distance.
The closer I got home, however, the more intense the celebrations and the noise. The smell of smoke and gunpowder was also overwhelming.
The minute I stepped off my bus at Hanguangmen, I was immediately confronted by celebrants popping fireworks of every kind, from the popular red firecrackers to spinners and rockets to fireworks that whistle.
Then there were those that sounded and felt like bombs.
Immediately I tried to take cover under the eaves of my bus stop. All I had for protection was a long overcoat with a hood, gloves, and black Ugg boots with pom poms. I had nothing to protect my ears from the deafening sounds of bombs exploding. I could only scream and stick my fingers in my ears to drown out the sound.
I also carried a backpack in the front. My backpack was catching falling ash and debris which I quickly brushed off.
I still had to cross a major road with cars and walk another three blocks to get home. Not only did I have to dodge cars, but I also had to dodge missiles and rockets coming from every direction.
After running across the road and screaming like a mad woman, I finally reached the other side and tried to take cover under the eaves of another building. I could feel the embers falling on my hood. I was so scared. I couldn’t even scream anymore. I could only utter a long, drawn-out moan to drown out the noise, and I continued sticking my fingers in my ears.
I still had to walk three more blocks to get home. I took a deep breath – full of gunpowder and smoke – and I moaned and ran to my apartment building, ran through the gate and to the third floor. Once inside, I closed and secured any open windows and I tried to shower to get rid of the smell of gunpowder in my clothes. Once I put on some fresh clothes, I tried to boil water to cook some frozen dumplings for dinner.
Tried, because outside in the alley below and in the courtyard in the back, bombs kept going off, causing my windows to rattle and my floor to undulate beneath my feet. I was so scared I pushed my dining room table beneath my doorway connecting my living room with my bedroom, and threw some blankets and pillows under the table to try and get some sleep. I was afraid that something was going to fall on me.
The bombing continued for several hours until just past midnight. I could never sleep comfortably on the floor. Eventually, I moved back to my bed.
I wasn’t going to get much sleep anyway.
Two days later, I had to return to work. I had to take the bus at Hanguangmen to downtown. On my way to the bus stop, I encountered two scruffy men in their forties, smoking, and detonating fireworks. They had placed a red cylinder, a little larger than my fist, in the middle of the alley, a road I use to get to my stop.
Just as I was approaching, one of them lit the fuse with a cigarette lighter. They make a run for it, but in their haste the damn thing toppled over. Sparks spewed out – at my feet! I felt like I was in a western film where I had to perform the bullet dance. Once again, I had to run like hell to get to my stop. Luckily, those two men were able to extinguish the fuse before the bomb detonated and I arrived at work safely.
Right now, in our state legislature there is a huge debate regarding the sale and detonating of aerial fireworks, especially in the aftermath of the Lahaina wildfires on Maui. According to Honolulu Civil Beat, more than 112,000 pounds of illegal fireworks were seized in December. Yet, my inconsiderate neighbors were able to get some. As a result, I spent New Years Eve screaming and cursing them out to drown out the noise.
If these people choose to pop fireworks on Independence Day and my home is in their line of fire, don’t expect me to be so forgiving.
I grew up in the Southern Baptist tradition, thanks to my Dad who grew up in Georgia. Every summer our church in Waimea hosted young college students, mostly from the South, to come to Hawaii to help with Vacation Bible School (VBS), summer camp programs sponsored by the Hawaii Baptist Convention, and whatever else churches needed done. Many of these students were a part of their college Baptist Student Unions (BSU) who would send their students to do summer mission work. They would stay at a church for at least two weeks before moving on to the next church.
We looked forward to having them every summer. We looked forward to sharing our way of life with them by taking them to the beach and introducing them to strange, but much-loved local delicacies like Spam musubi.
So, when I became a BSU student and had the chance to be a summer missionary myself in the spring of 1989, I jumped at the chance. Except instead of going to Hawaii, I was sent to California.
I got my assignment in the mail. I was to work in Ventura County in southern California, alongside a young man named Nathan, a student from Baylor University. We were to meet at Golden Gate Theological Seminary in San Francisco before continuing our weeklong orientation in Jenness Park in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. We trained for what we would encounter in our work; how to manage children and how to talk to people about Christ.
And like our counterparts in Hawaii, we were to go to different churches and assist in VBS and church activities.
What we were not trained for was what to do in the event if the church we were sent to was engaged in potential illegal activity.
After our week of training was over, our area boss Jerry, a bearded pastor from Ventura County, drove up to Jenness Park to take us down to Oxnard, our base for the next few weeks. We did the usual mission work of assisting churches with VBS programs and distributing Bible tracts.
But there was one church in the town of Fillmore, where the pastor of First Baptist Church of Fillmore, was going rogue.
Nathan and I had no idea what we were in for. We just did what the church wanted us to do.
It was the week of the Fourth of July in 1989. Normally we’d be dropped off on church property or the pastor’s home.
Not this week.
Instead, Jerry dropped us off on a major road next to a stand selling fireworks in the town of Fillmore. We were greeted by a thin man with a moppy hairdo, a thick mustache, and glasses.
Two women accompanied this man. One woman was plump and wore a blue and white dress. The other woman was leaner and more muscular and had short, cropped hair dyed in fiery red.
Jerry initiated the introductions.
“This is Pastor Chris Nelson and his wife Nancy.”
Think Jack Sprat and his wife.
Pastor Nelson introduced the other woman. “This is Barbara.”
We all shook hands and introduced ourselves before Jerry left.
Then we were introduced to the other volunteers working at the fireworks stand and were immediately put to work. Someone ran the register while others were re-stocking our supply of Roman candles, Chinese Dragon Red firecrackers, and sparklers. Customers would approach a window and point out what they would like and how many. Nathan and I were tasked with getting the fireworks they requested.
Fillmore was quite an arid town. It was hot and dusty the week we were there. Not a drop of rain. Our stand was nothing more than a wood skeleton covered in black tarpaulin.
I have read about California’s wildfires, and I’ve heard about the state’s hodgepodge of fireworks laws from relatives who live in the state. Both Nathan and I wondered if what we were doing was legal. But we were in no position to complain. For one thing, we didn’t have a way to contact our area supervisor Jerry.
And Nathan was definitely in no position to report anything since he was staying with the Nelsons.
Thankfully, I was staying with Barbara.
Barbara, as it turns out, was a fighter. According to her, we were expected to show up at 8 a.m. and work until Pastor Nelson decides to close shop. No lunch or dinner breaks. Not even bathroom breaks were allowed!
“I fought with Chris about taking breaks,” she said. “He wanted me to show up at eight. I said, ‘uh-uh! I’m showing up when it is convenient for us!’”
Unfortunately, she could not get Nathan any breaks.
For the four days we were in Fillmore Barbara, and I would show up whenever we felt like it, and we took breaks to eat.
“C’mon Jada! We’re taking a lunch break! Let’s go to Taco Bell.”
“You’re so lucky you are staying with Barbara,” Nathan told me.
“Why?” I asked. “What time did you leave last night?”
“Pastor Chris made me come at 8 a.m.” he replied in a hushed tone. “I wasn’t allowed to leave until midnight when he decided to close. No breaks.”
In other words, the pastor forced Nathan to work a straight 16-hour shift.
Then there was the question of the sale and detonation of fireworks. Some of our volunteers were telling us that it was legal to buy and pop fireworks in Fillmore.
But we were getting customers from Oxnard and Ventura. We even had families coming in from Los Angeles buying fireworks and taking them back home. There is no way they would be popping them in Fillmore. They would be taking them home in cities where fireworks are illegal.
“Pastor Chris has a knack for fundraising,” said Barbara.
But for what were we fundraising? We weren’t helping any youth group raise funds for a trip.
This fundraising for First Baptist Church of Fillmore had me thinking of the Biblical story of Jesus overturning tables in Matthew 21.
My house will be called a house of prayer, but you are making it a den of thieves.
If Jesus could see what we were doing, he would definitely be angry at us.
Two days before the July 4th holiday, Pastor Chris closed the booth early to host a party at his home. He invited all the volunteers, including Barbara.
The pastor was very chatty and relaxed. He was so relaxed that he let his kids do what they wanted to do unsupervised.
We were in the living room talking when we were interrupted by a child’s screaming. Pastor Nelson’s daughter and her friends were outside in the driveway. They had somehow gotten a hold of some of the fireworks and ripped out the gun powder of one and lit it on fire. We heard it detonate.
“Argh! Mommy! Daddy!”
Nancy stopped what she was doing in the kitchen to tend to her screaming daughter who had powder on her face and hands. The girl looked like a ghost. She reminded me of my own fireworks experience when I was her age.
My Dad, a proud Chinese, taught me how to unravel a ten thousand firecracker bundle. He also taught me how to light one of those tiny red crackers and toss them.
“Light them in front of your body,” he said. “Then toss.”
I learned very quickly. I got so good at it that I got complacent, and I lit one on the side of my body. By the time I got to tossing it, that thing exploded in my hand.
“Jada? Can I talk to you?” Something was bothering Nathan.
“Sure,” I said. “What’s up?”
He spoke in a hushed voice.
“I hate being here.”
“What’s wrong?”
“The first night I arrived, I had a tough time.” Nathan paused before continuing on. “I’m allergic to animal fur.”
Outside in the pastor’s yard were two large labradors running around and barking.
“When I first came, those dogs were running around inside the house. Fur everywhere. I was so sick I was about to vomit.
“When I asked Nancy if I could use the nearest bathroom, she said, ‘you can’t use any of our bathrooms to vomit.’ I’m like what do you expect me to do? Throw up in your hands?”
Nathan was clearly troubled. Yet, there was nothing Barbara and I could do. If we invited him to join us for lunch and he took us up on our offer, he and Barbara could get into trouble with the Nelsons. Not only could he not take breaks. He couldn’t even use the bathroom!
The next day was July 3rd. It was much the same routine; the stand was to open at 8 a.m. and close whenever the pastor wanted to.
But on the eve of the Fourth, a blue sedan car showed up in front of the stand. It was Jerry’s car.
“Pack your bags,” he said. “I’m getting you out of here.”
Nathan and I got in. Jerry first took us to the Nelson’s home so Nathan could get his bags before heading to Barbara’s home.
I have no idea who contacted Jerry. I suspect Barbara made a call and gave him the scoop after seeing what happened to the Nelson’s daughter.
On our way back to Oxnard we told Jerry what we experienced. All he could do was shake his head as he listened.
“Pastor Nelson has always been a thorn at the California Southern Baptist Convention’s side.”
We left Fillmore early. We never even set foot inside the church.
Towards the end of our summer term Nathan and I were scheduled to join thousands of other Baptist college students in Glorietta, New Mexico. We were to be reunited with our BSU groups from University of Hawaii Manoa and Hilo, and Baylor University for a week of revival.
While there, Southern Baptist leaders in charge of the summer missions’ programs invited student missionaries to a debriefing. We were encouraged to share our experiences and our concerns. When we were asked to share, I stood up.
“We were forced to do something potentially illegal,” I said. “We were selling fireworks for one church which put us in legal limbo.”
Nathan and I were asked to stay after the meeting to give the name of the church and of the pastor.
“We will look into this,” they promised.
I left it at that.
There were some things about that experience that I did enjoy. I enjoyed talking to our customers and selling things to them. I also enjoyed getting to know my fellow volunteers.
As a kid, people always told me that Waimea is just like England. I remember a friend telling me this as we were looking at Buster Brown against a backdrop of the rest of the gentle green hills, we call pu’u in Hawaiian.
This was all before the words climate change and global warming became the catch phrases of our time.
I live at the foot of the Kohala Mountains, a range of ancient, extinct volcanoes. As a kid, my family would take us to Kamehameha Pool in Kapa’au, one of two towns in the North Kohala District. We could get there through either the Kohala Mountain Road, a.k.a. the Mountain Road, or the Akoni Pule Highway.
Although the Mountain Road is more dangerous because of its twists and turns, it is the most scenic. Often my sisters and I would swing our bodies with every twist and turn as if we were on a roller coaster.
We’d look out the window and see our neighborhood below. I’d try to find our house from the Mountain Road. I could also see cows and horses grazing on the grass.
Private ranches, in addition, have gates all along the Mountain Road, indicating how important the ranching industry is to the island’s economy. Ranching is the fourth largest agriculture industry on Hawaii Island.
On my recent trip to England, I was reminded of my island home.
Waimea is very much like England. As we got further away from southern England heading north, I saw lots of rolling hills and vast lands of lush, green pastures.
The livestock of choice grazing on the grass was not cattle, but sheep. I have never seen so many sheep in my life!
That eastern part of England is known as the Cotswolds. I learned about this area by watching Downton Abbey. They featured farm and country scenes in the Cotswolds.
And yes. Many of those scenes featured sheep.
“Wool was the largest industry in this area of England,” said Mike, our guide. “Unfortunately, it has been on the decline in recent years.”
Mike was saying this as we were passing an abandoned wool mill.
As we were passing by that mill, I thought of a scene from the movie Gandhi, in which Gandhi and his wife were addressing a large crowd. Indians, in the early twentieth century, were losing their jobs in the textile industry because England was producing textiles on an industrial scale, driving Indians into poverty.
“All those who wish to make the English see, bring me the cloth from Manchester and Leeds that you wear today, and we shall light a fire that will be seen in Delhi and in London.
“And if, like me, you are left with only one piece of home spun, wear it with dignity.”
The Stone Circles.
We had just left Bath and were on our way to the Cotswolds. We were scheduled to visit the Stone Circles at Avebury and Blenheim Palace (Sassy American link) along the way. As we were making our way to Avebury, I could not help but notice those rolling green hills. They reminded me so much of Waimea. Mike explained to us about the ancient history of this place. Apparently, neolithic hunters and gatherers lived in this lush area.
What is not so neolithic are the white horses that are carved into the hills. According to Time for Wiltshire’s website, (http://www.wiltshire.co.uk/explore/wiltshire-white-horses) there are currently eight of these horses in Wiltshire County, the county we were driving through to get to Avebury.
“These images are cut, carved, mowed – however you want to describe the method – into the hill and thus exposing the chalky, white, dust,” explained Mike. “And they are regularly maintained.
“We will get to see one of these horses in just a bit.”
According to Time for Wiltshire the oldest of these horses is from 1778, while the newest horse was carved in 1999 to welcome in the new millennium.
We stopped at the Cherhill White Horse, the second oldest hill carving in Wiltshire County and the third oldest in the country. Our driver pulled our coach over to the side of the road and parked our bus so that we could get out and take a few pictures.
I went out with my travel buddies and followed Mike to the scenic spot.
“There it is,” said one of my buddies as she pointed it out to me.
I nearly missed seeing the horse because the hill it was on cast a dark shadow over the image. I was also thinking of something else.
Home.
After we all got to see the white horse, we jumped back on the bus and headed to the tiny town of Avebury.
Avebury is a very small town with one two-laned highway in and out of the village. One could walk the entire town in less than half an hour.
But this is a tiny town with an oversized personality. People come here because of its stone circles that date back to the Neolithic period. These stones are older than Stonehenge.
There were two fields of pastures holding these stone circles. Both were used to tell the passage of time and seasons.
Size comparison.
Unfortunately, I really wasn’t all that interested in the stone circles. I was more interested in exploring the tiny village itself. I loved looking at the outside of buildings because that is what I would see on PBS.
Avebury is so small that it doesn’t even have a chain grocery store. What it does have is a co-op where farmers and villagers can bring in their items and sell them to the public. On my visit, some local food producers had just dropped off some of their meat for sale.
This co-op also sold snacks and drinks as well. I had picked out a defrosted vegan pot pie and a soft drink for lunch.
“Where is the best place for a picnic?” I asked the cashier.
“I’d recommend the church,” she said. “It’s just two blocks from here. They’ve got some benches there.”
I thanked the woman and headed for the church.
At home in Waimea, I attend Saint James Episcopal Church. When I first joined the church in 2013, I took some classes to learn about the history of this denomination. I learned that the Episcopal church is the American branch of the Anglican Church of England and that if I were to attend an Anglican or another Episcopal church, the liturgy would be the same.
So, it was quite a delight when I found the church. At the entrance gate there was a welcome sign:
St. James Church
Welcome, pilgrims of all faiths and none.
We pray you find peace here.
We pray you find God’s love here.
We hope you will rest a while.
Know you are welcome.
Home.
Wow!
Saint James Avebury.
The gate was already open. All I had to do was enter.
I’m home.
To my right was a well-kept cemetery with all its headstones well maintained. There was even a gardener pushing a lawn mower to keep the grass down.
To my left was a garden with trees and flowers. There were several benches in the garden, but only one was under some shade, and it was occupied.
In front of me was the church. More on that building later.
My friends Jerry and Claire occupied that bench under that tree.
“May I join you?” I asked.
“Sure,” said Jerry. “We can scoot over to make space for you.”
I sat on one end of the bench. We all squeezed in on this one bench. I opened my defrosting vegan pot pie and my Coke while Jerry and Claire continued eating their sandwiches. We shared our thoughts about our trip and talked about events in our country.
I also shared how Avebury reminds me of my home, the rolling hills, and now this church.
After we had finished our food, we all decided to check out the church.
Saint James Avebury was founded in the ninth century. It is a stone church with a clock tower. It is small, compared to the other churches I’ve visited in England, Germany, and Austria. Yet, this was the most enjoyable church I’ve ever visited on this trip.
All three of us set out to explore the church. The wooden door was closed. But there was an open sign posted.
Jerry opened the door for both of us women. The hinges creaked as he pulled it open.
CREAK!
We stepped inside to cool off (yes, England was still in the middle of its heatwave) and to have a look. I put my mask on even though there were few people inside. The sanctuary is smaller than the Saint James in Waimea. The pews are made from wood, and it looked like they could seat around eighty people comfortably.
The rood screen at Saint James Avebury.
The front of the church displayed the altar which sat behind a rood screen, separating the clergy from the congregation. At the back of the church was a table filled with brochures. All of them had the familiar logo of the cross that I have seen on pamphlets back home.
Of course, the church had its share of stained-glass windows like all the other churches I’ve seen. However, this church, because of its smallness, was more down-to-earth. Those big churches like Canterbury and Westminster, or even Saint Steven’s Cathedral in Vienna made me feel small and invisible. Some of them, like Canterbury and Westminster, housed dead kings and queens inside the building.
Creepy.
Saint James Avebury felt very welcoming even though there was no one to greet us. My only regret is that I wish I could have attended one of their services so that I’d get to talk to people and know them better.
Since returning home to Hawaii, I have often reminisced about England.
If I’m ever priced out of paradise and I must live in England, I’d choose to live in Avebury.
Now that I’m home I sometimes look up at the Kohala Mountains and try to picture a black horse (black because of lava) carved into those hills.
And as for searching for a Saint James church? Well, I don’t have any difficulty in finding that in my hometown.
A week after I returned home from my trip to England, I attended church for the first time in a month.
At the end of his sermon our rector ended his message on a depressing note.
“This week has been a real downer for me,” he said to the congregation. “As you know this week the Supreme Court declared affirmative action in universities programs unconstitutional, and that business owners can deny same sex couples services if they don’t agree with their clients.
“You can also add in the overturning of Roe versus Wade,” he lamented.
Then he asked this question.
“Is there any goodness in this world?”
I thought about that on my drive home after church.
On my final full day in London, I got to see Churchill’s War Rooms and the Churchill Museum. I slipped through the crowds standing at the gates of Buckingham Palace and at Saint James Park and took the underground to Westminster Station where the War Rooms were located. My ticket said I was scheduled for a 12-noon viewing of the War Rooms.
It was hot. When I got there, there were several lines of people waiting to get in. People were trying numerous ways to avoid the searing sun, sitting in the shade, drinking water, fanning themselves. It turns out I had visited England in the middle of an extraordinary heat wave.
In front of me was a local family of five; two parents with three children all under the age of ten. The children were restless. They were begging their parents for more water. They were pushing and shoving each other and constantly running in and out of the line.
They were behaving like children normally do.
Finally, museum officials slowly opened the gate for those who had booked tickets online for the 12 o’clock viewing. Officials were letting in people In slowly as visitors from previous time slots left the museum. I had to wait a few more minutes for visitors to leave before I was allowed in.
I soon figured out why they were doing this. But I’ll get back to that later.
After presenting my QR code to the cashier, getting my audio guide, and passing through security, I entered the War Rooms first.
The first exhibit I encountered was a black bomb, a little larger than an American football, hovering inches above my head. This was used by the German Luftwaffe in the Battle of Britain in 1940.
What a way to start the exhibition, I thought. It was for this reason this underground bunker was built. Anything above ground, including government buildings, were exposed to Hitler’s bombing campaign.
As I meandered my way through the museums it became apparent as to why groups were being slowly let in. The main hallway was cramped and there were bottlenecks of visitors viewing the more important displays like the communications hub and Churchill’s bedroom. It was also ridiculously hot. Hotter than outside. And since I was wearing my mask, having that many people crammed into a tiny space made it more difficult for me to breathe.
A meeting room in Churchill’s War Rooms.
At least I could see the war rooms through a fiber glass window. In those days there were no windows and there was no modern plumbing. Water had to be brought in somehow and people had to bring in their own chamber pots to do their business. Imagine the heat along with the smell.
I continued to wander around. Eventually, I bumped into that family that I saw earlier. We all stood in front of a display that showed several old-fashioned typewriters, the kind where you could get your fingers stuck in between the keys.
There were also several rotary dial phones on display.
“In those days they didn’t have computers or mobile phones,” the father explained to his three kids.
That young father impressed me more than any of the exhibits on display. There were not that many young families visiting that day and the museums had nothing for young kids. So, I thought kudos to this dad for even bringing his family to the War Rooms and Churchill Museum.
I also hoped that if they had the means and once the kids were older and mature enough, that they could fly to Germany or Poland to visit Hitler’s death camps like the one I visited in Dachau. I thought it was a good thing that this father thought it was important to teach his children about their country’s history and learn about one of the world’s greatest statesmen who believed that his country would defeat fascism.
It is a pity that in some parts of my own country history is being manipulated to fit someone’s political agenda. To teach school age children that African Americans acquired skills through slavery and that the Holocaust never happened, is doing a disservice to our children. If we fail to learn from our past, we lose a country. If we fail to learn from history, we have no future.
But if we learn from our past, we gain a country. If we learn from our mistakes, we gain a better and brighter future for our children.
So yes, there are good people doing so many good things. You just have to look hard enough to find them in obscure places such as an underground bunker.
A statue of a British officer working in the War Rooms.
I wavered about visiting this place. As I have said in my piece Revenge Travel Four, I have been palaced out. I’ve visited the monstrosity that is called Blenheim Palace (see Sassy American Two: https://xinghuajiangsu.wordpress.com/2023/09/04/sassy-american-in-england-part-two/ ) and I’ve visited the homes of the British aristocracy on my Rick Steves Europe tour that they all looked the same to me.
The only reason I finally decided to see Buckingham Palace was this. If a friend asked me if I saw Buckingham and I said “no,” I’d feel foolish.
You went all the way to London, yet you did not see Buckingham Palace?
I also did not see Abbey Road, famous for that Beatle’s crosswalk. There are just so many things to see in London because it is a huge, cosmopolitan city.
I was nearing the end of my British experience and I had just one more full day before I had to make a tow day journey back home. So, even though I was already tired of visiting palaces, including Windsor the day before, I may never be in London again. So, I decided to go.
Buckingham Palace sits on the western end of Saint James Park. The palace gardens sit between the palace gates and the park. Inside the gardens is a water fountain containing the statue of Queen Victoria.
Again, the weather was scorching hot. I took the underground from Gloucester to Saint James station. It was around 10:45 a.m. when I arrived.
When I got there it was a zoo. It wasn’t as crowded as Windsor. But there were people with their faces pressed on the gates, hoping to get a glimpse of a royal. Others were jostling for the best positions for a picture or a selfie. Some were carrying those ubiquitous selfie sticks. Others were carrying their Go Pros on their camera mounts.
Police were everywhere. They were patrolling the sidewalk and the fountain fronting the palace gardens. They were directing traffic at Saint James Park. They were telling people to back away from the gates and crossing pedestrians.
They certainly had their hands full.
I got to the palace gates and took several photos before moving on and slipping through the crowds. I had enough of the pressing crowds and the unbearable heat. I opted to head for the shade of Saint James Park and a scoop of ice cream at a solitary ice cream stand.
Saint James Park is a twenty-three-hectare (fifty-seven acre) park in the middle of London. There were families picnicking under the shade of so many trees. There were people biking and running on trails.
There was even an ice cream stand that sold mostly sweet snacks and drinks like chips (called crisps in England), fruit and granola bars, coffee, water, and other cold drinks.
But I wanted ice cream.
“I’d like a scoop of the hazelnut honey ice cream, please.”
After I got my scoop, I took my cup of ice cream and quickly ate it in the shade before crossing the street and standing at the garden gate to get a few more pictures of the crowd.
I had more fun people watching than actually viewing the palace.
I left just after 11, just as the palace prepared to change the guard. I could hear the music as I was heading back to the underground to my next stop, the Churchill War Rooms.
I had a date with a certain prime minister.
Crowds wanting to get a glimpse of a member of the Royal Family.
Why I Travel
I was recently asked this question:
“Why do you travel knowing that you will be uncomfortable wearing a mask?”
I was very offended by this question. I interpreted it as this:
Are you saying that because I’m immunocompromised that I should just stay home?
His comment also reminded me of an NPR article about seven million immunocompromised Americans who feel left out of these mask and vaccine debates.
I don’t think the person that asked me that question didn’t mean to offend me. But this is the type of unwanted advice anti-maskers would give mask supporters like me when it came to the issue of traveling in the middle of a pandemic. It was very demeaning and hurtful to read these comments on social media.
And yes, we are still in the middle of a pandemic.
I have psoriasis, a skin condition that involves the accelerated shedding of skin. Ironically, I hate using the word disease because people get the impression that what I had was contagious.
It is not. Unlike COVID which is highly contagious.
Normal skin sheds every thirty days.
I can shed mine in three.
What people see are raised, red patches of skin that dry out and flake off.
What brings on a psoriasis outbreak? Stress. I started this year under a great deal of stress from a business relationship that went south. That caused my last outbreak.
Ironically, wintry weather also causes an outbreak.
Sometimes psoriatic arthritis accompanies psoriasis. Psoriatic arthritis can affect the joints, causing the sufferer to feel like Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz.
Unfortunately, there is no cure for either ailment and what works for one patient may not work for another.
So, what’s my oil? Every couple of months I must inject myself with a pen either in my abdomen or in one of my legs. My medication of choice is Skyrizi, which helps clear my skin and lessens the pain in my knees. Unfortunately, because of these injections, this puts me in the high-risk category of getting COVID. But because of these injections I can have a better quality of life and live my life the way I’ve always wanted.
This includes traveling.
So why do I travel despite the minor inconvenience of wearing a mask?
1.I want to learn about other people’s lives and culture. I want to try their food and drink. I want to know how they see Americans. I can’t do that from a computer screen. If I didn’t go to Germany, I would not have gotten the opportunity to taste authentic German beer. If I didn’t go to England, I would not have the opportunity to poke fun at the British aristocracy. I must get out there and experience the good, the bad, and the ugly.
2. I want to educate others about what it’s like as an Asian American from Hawaii traveling in another part of the world. I also want to share what it feels like as an immunocompromised person to travel in the age of COVID. We all know that travel can be rough, and things don’t always go as planned. It ain’t all honky dory. During my trip to Germany and Austria I had to put up with un-masked fellow audience members at a concert in Vienna. In England I had to put up with three weeks of an intense heat wave sweeping across the country. It’s all about how I had to cope with these situations so that I could have an enjoyable experience.
3. I travel because I can. Thomas Jefferson wrote it in the Declaration of Independence which says this:
We hold these truths to be self evident, that all people are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
By telling an immunocompromised person to stay home, anti-maskers are infringing on my happiness. Anti-maskers have no right to stop me from traveling just like I cannot stop them from traveling un-masked and un-vaccinated. It goes both ways.
And why should they have all the fun? I feel that I have done everything right. I’ve quarantined when the State of Hawaii ordered me to do so. I’ve masked up and have upgraded from wearing a cloth mask to a KN95. I’m fully vaccinated. So, I should be rewarded for my efforts.
So, to those who think I should have stayed home, instead of asking me why I travel, here are two questions you should be asking yourselves:
1. What am I doing to stop the spread of COVID?
2. What am I doing to stop the spread of misinformation?
To those people who are immunocompromised but feel that travel is not in their cards I respect your decision and I hope you will get to do the things you love.
To those immunocompromised people that can travel, I say take the necessary precautions, and then go! I went on two Rick Steves Europe trips and tested negative the two times I returned home. This is all because I took the necessary precautions to keep me and my family safe from getting COVID. Talk to your doctor. Get vaccinated. Bring your masks and COVID tests and enjoy your trip.
Enjoying a musical history tour. This is where John Lennon stood as a toilet attendant on the set of Not Only…But Also in 1966.
This tour included stops at Windsor Castle, Oxford, and Stonehenge. But I’m going to focus on Windsor because that is where I encountered the largest crowd trying to enter one tourist attraction.
Windsor Castle.
Although the crowds in London were larger, visitors were trying to visit several places of interest in the same area. Westminster Abbey, Parliament Building, Big Ben, and the Churchill War Rooms are just blocks away from each other.
Windsor is a town just twenty-five miles west of London. On a sunny day it could be seen from the London Eye, on the River Thames.
The biggest attraction in town is Windsor Castle, a working royal residence as well as a military fort.
Like my previous Evans Evans tour three weeks earlier, I had to meet my group at Victoria Coach Station. It was still extremely hot. England was entering its third week of record temperatures.
The station was even more crowded than on my previous trip. In addition to wearing my mask, I had to show possession of my possessions. Rick’s warning of this place being a thieves’ haven still echoed in my memory. I wore my money belt as if I were wearing a Miss America sash with the bag part on my chest. I carried my backpack in front of me and hugged it tightly.
Once again, the bus was packed. All fifty-five seats were taken, and we were all given whispers.
I kept my mask on.
Jason, our guide, was on a tight schedule. The tour was for twelve hours, and we were scheduled to visit three places.
“If you like reading every placard in the museum, then this tour is not for you,” he said. “You can look briefly, then move on.”
By this time, I had been castled out, churched out, palaced out, and museumed out. All castles began to look the same with huge self portraits of the owner. All churches looked the same with their tall spires and trillions of stain glass windows. All palaces looked the same with all their one time use dinner ware on display.
I just wanted to head to the iconic Stonehenge on this trip. This trip to Windsor was just a filler.
No problem I thought.
When we arrived at the car park in Windsor it was already nearing capacity with lots of private vehicles and several tour buses, including other Evans Evans buses.
“Be sure to be back here by 11:45,” said Jason before we all disembarked. “If you are not back here by then, you will be left behind.”
Jason led the way to the Windsor Castle grounds, pointing out recognizable landmarks on the way so that we could find our way back to the bus.
“If you’ll notice, there are two tennis courts on either side,” he said, pointing them out along the way.
“Look for this arch and go through the tunnel.”
We followed Jason through this stone arch and tunnel which took us to a bar called King’s Pub on our right.
On our way up to Windsor Castle.
“When you come out, you will see the King’s Pub. You can use that as a landmark.”
From then on, it was all uphill on a cobblestone sidewalk. We made a right turn. Already there were scores of tour groups heading in the same direction.
“To your left you will see a statue of Queen Victoria. We’ll turn left here.”
We finally reached the street fronting the castle. Roads had to be clear for locals as well as the king’s military parade. That meant that every inch of the cobblestone sidewalk was taken.
Jason tried to get his group of fifty-five visitors as close to the security checkpoint as possible and under some shade. Unfortunately, we still had to wait, which made Jason a nervous wreck.
“Security,” he told the groupthrough our whispers. “It’s just like airport security.” He even started complaining. “If they closed at 5 p.m., then we could have made Windsor our last stop. But because they close at 4 p.m., this is our first stop.”
In the hot sun.
Then the crowd in front of us started moving. We moved along with them from the sidewalk up a ramp. As we moved up, Jason kept guiding us with his commentary.
He pointed to a tower on our left. “You see that building there?” he asked. “If a flag is up, that means the king is in residence.”
As it turned out, the flag of England’s red cross was up, meaning King Charles was in residence for the Ascott horse races.
The king is in residence at Windsor.
“What are the chances of seeing the king?” someone in our group asked.
“Not sure,” Jason replied. “When the queen was alive, she would come out and shake hands with members of the public. It remains to be seen if Charles will do the same.”
We finally reached the terrace just outside the security checkpoint overlooking the massive crowd below.
Holy shit!
Thousands of people were standing below me for at least several blocks. The crowd line – if there was one – snaked its way back to Victoria’s statue and beyond. I could see several tour groups, including one led by an old man with a company flag all sweating it out in the summer heat.
Poor guy I thought. I hope he brought some water.
“Does this happen often?” I asked Jason.
“Only recently,” he replied. “This is what they call ‘revenge travel.’ After three years of enduring COVID restrictions, people want to travel. This is the result.”
I was looking at it.
As I looked at the crowds below me, I thought of my home state of Hawaii, where we are being loved to death by visitors. On any given day there are more tourists on the Big Island, where I’m from, than local residents. During the pandemic I have encountered visitors who ignore park and beach signs. I have encountered visitors whose vacation abruptly ended in the hospital because they attempted to climb rocks to avoid powerful beach swells, only to fall and crack their heads open. I was even blocked from leaving my favorite beach because a group of visitors wanted to take a picture of the bay below.
I try to be respectful when I travel. For example, I asked Jason if it is OK to take pictures. When I visited the Tower of London, we were not allowed to take pictures of the jewels.
“Outside? Yes. Inside? No.”
So far so good. I did not see any outrageous behavior among the huge crowd, despite the heat and extremely long lines.
I also thought about what locals in Windsor thought about the massive crowd in their town. I wanted to ask Jason what he thought about this crowd and over tourism in his country. But, judging from the sound of his voice he sounded cautiously optimistic.
Cautious, because he was still nervous about missing his tour schedule time constraints. Optimistic because this may be the first time in as many months where he could work. Taking tour groups to places of interest is his bread and butter.
I kept my mouth shut on the topic.
At least for one local, the king, tourism revenue pays the bills.
We finally reached the entry to the security checkpoint. I was the first in our group to go through. Unlike airport security, water was allowed through, and I didn’t have to remove my shoes. I had to place my backpack, my money belt, and my phone in a bin to run through the scanner. I also had to go through a full body scan and a pat down before I was cleared to get my things.
Once our group was clear Jason let us go.
“Be back at our bus by 11:45.”
The crowds began to thin out. I could finally take my mask off.
Briefly.
Unfortunately, most of the attractions within the castle walls were closed. The State Rooms and Queen Mary’s Doll House were closed. What was open was Saint George’s Chapel and marching grounds for the changing of the guard. In addition, the castle encompassed courtyards and gardens around the estate.
I walked around the castle courtyard taking pictures before putting my mask back on and entering Saint George’s Chapel, the final resting place for Queen Elizabeth II. A small crowd of people had gathered to pay their respects to the late queen. I only got a glimpse of her headstone before moving on, just as Jason had instructed.
Outside, I heard a docent make the following announcement:
“If you want to see the changing of the guard, it’s in fifteen minutes!”
I had not yet seen the changing of the guard on my trip to England. So, I asked the docent to point me in the right direction.
I got to the military courtyard early. There were very few people.
Changing of the guard.
That all soon changed after 11 a.m. when the ceremony got underway. People were blocking my view of the guards. I had to jostle for a good spot with other tourists. Yet, I could not get a picture without getting a shot of the back of someone’s head.
But at least I got to see the ceremony.
Ten minutes into the ceremony I finally gave up fighting the crowd of some one hundred people. Rather than put on my mask, I decided to head back to the bus. I could at least walk back to the car park, mask free, until I boarded the bus for our next destination.
The other city with massive crowds was London, the last city on the tour. One of the places on our list was Westminster Abbey. Mike had planned for an abbey tour guide to meet us there.
“London is a metropolitan city of eight million people.”
A mere drop in the bucket compared to a Chinese city like Shanghai with twenty-five million people.
That area of Westminster also included Parliament and Big Ben. It was teaming with tourists taking pictures of Big Ben, Parliament Building, and the Thames. Outside of the abbey were hordes of visitors just waiting to get in.
We finally met our guide, a woman named Rachel, a docent of the abbey. Mike and Rachel agreed to split our group in half to make it more manageable, as there were other tour groups and independent travelers also visiting Westminster.
The church was packed. Again, I was shoulder to shoulder with people who were not a part of my group. And yes, I had my mask on.
The crowds in front of Westminster Abbey.
Westminster is smaller than I had thought.
“It’s all due to the camera angle,” said Rachel.
I was reminded of my visit to Saint Michael’s Church in Mondsee, Austria. This is where Captain Von Trap and Maria were married in the movie The Sound of Music. The church looked large in the movie. But when I saw the church in person it was smaller.
Westminster had that same effect. When I saw video clips of Prince William’s wedding to Catherine Middleton online, the camera played the same tricks. The angle made the church larger than it really is.
And unlike the other churches on my visit there was no sanctuary with open seats for us to sit on. Instead, we were standing on the plaques containing the names of some incredibly famous Brits: William Shakespeare, William Wordsworth, Charles Dickens, and Charles Darwin to name a few.
There were two things that made the church larger than it really seems. One possibility is the thousands of stain glass windows depicting scenes from the Bible or of biblical characters like John the Baptist baptizing people on the Jordan River. Rachel took the time to explain the more prominent windows, but by then I had seen so many stain glass windows in England that the tour was a bore.
The other possibility could be the church spires reaching as far as they could to the heavens.
Inside Westminster.
After our tour of Westminster was over, we met back on our bus and headed for our hotel to check in. I was so glad once I got settled in my room because I could finally take my mask off.
The other tourist hotspot was the Tower of London where the crown jewels are kept. We went early to avoid the massive crowd that would be arriving after us. But there were still long queues of visitors trying to enter the tower grounds. We had to wait in one queue that zigged and zagged in the pedestrian square fronting the tower entrance.
Mike issued wristbands while we waited.
The Tower of London sits on the east end of London on the north bank of the Thames. It is a castle that was established in 1066 as part of the Norman conquest. The White Tower was built by William the Conqueror in 1078 and was a symbol of oppression. Most Americans would be familiar with the story of Henry VIII and his second wife, Anne Boleyn, who was imprisoned and executed at the tower in May of 1536.
On our way to the Tower of London.
I had heard of the tower through watching PBS documentaries. The British celebrity Lucy Worsley, had a show about Henry VIII and his six wives, including Anne Boleyn. The BBC also aired another documentary about the Boleyn family as well as another show about the tower itself. Mike kept mentioning the names of British kings and queens as well as other historical figures, but they were people that I could never remember or what they did.
The tower has a peculiar role in that it holds items of celebration. Yet, it is also notorious for its executions.
Mike led us to the south end of the tower facing the Thames. We were walking alongside a moat. Or at least there used to be one. The moat was overgrown with grass and bush. No water.
Behind the moat was a wall encompassing the entire fortress. The wall also had two mounts that served as a lookout.
We then turned left on to the riverfront promenade and passed Traitor’s Gate.
“This is where prisoners would enter by boat,” said Mike. “Unfortunately, they had to seal it off.”
We finally passed through Henry III’s Watergate on the south side. There are three wards inside the fortress: the outer ward, the inner ward, and the innermost ward.
There is another wall and another series of smaller towers separating the outer ward and the inner ward. The innermost ward is the White Tower itself where we encountered a larger group of people waiting to enter the tower. Security was tight. We weren’t required to open our bags, but there were yeoman warders, a.k.a. “beefeaters,” on duty. There were also more docents at the door reminding people that videos and pictures are not allowed. This is where the crown jewels are held.
The White Tower.
“This last coronation, palace officials had to come here via armored vehicles, to retrieve the crown, the scepter, and the orb,” explained Mike. He was referring to the coronation of King Charles.
Once again, Mike tried to get us as close to the front of the line as he could, and I put my mask back on.
“Don’t forget to meet back at the square under the big tree at one,” said Mike as we waited.
Inside I was once again shoulder-to-shoulder with un-masked visitors – mostly from the U.S. – gaping at the crown jewels and the ceremonial garb used for coronations. This included several diamond studded crowns and royal orbs. It also included a golden robe that weighs twenty-two pounds. There were also several gold spoons and silver spoons on display. This is where we get the expression “born with a silver spoon in one’s mouth”.
We have finally entered the gate!
Members of the royal family were born with silver spoons in their mouths, and they were certainly dripping in gold.
No one knows what the entire value of these jewels and precious stones are worth. But I daresay it is enough to feed an entire country.
All these exhibits were encased behind glass under state-of-the-art security systems. Docents were also in each room to answer questions and, more importantly, to keep order. Afterall, these are Britain’s crown jewels, and they need to be protected.
After about twenty minutes of viewing the exhibits, I finally left the White Tower and took my mask off. I found Mike wandering around outside. Some of my tour mates were planning to join the yeoman’s tour where they show where Anne Boleyn was beheaded.
A young solider.
The yeoman warders and the beefeaters were also featured in a BBC documentary called The Tower of London, broadcasted on PBS Hawaii. The BBC was granted special permission to film inside the tower compound and interview several senior warders who lived on the grounds. I got an exclusive view of a yeoman’s apartment.
They also interviewed a special yeoman with the title “raven master”.
Ravens are black crows that are native to Britain. There are many myths and stories of ravens at the Tower of London. One myth is that they stood still at Anne Boleyn’s beheading. But the first documented evidence of ravens living at the tower was in 1883.
I saw two beefeaters and one yeoman on duty. The beefeaters were young soldiers wearing their tall, black bear skin hats and their red and black uniforms. Both were charged with guarding several canons. One soldier was relieving the other.
I have seen videos and pictures of visitors trying to distract a beefeater. They’d tickle him, or they’d wave their hands in front of their face.
Not me. I’m not going to mess with an armed soldier. These men were also armed with bayonets.
Their senior officer, the yeoman, wore a black fur top hat, a red jacket with a white ruffled white collar. He also wore red leggings and leather shoes. The yeoman was unlocking a door to one of the other smaller towers. I presumed he was preparing for a group of tourists.
They must be hot in their uniforms.
If I’m sweating in shorts and a t-shirt, then these guys must be sweltering in their uniforms.
I did not see any ravens either. Perhaps because they were black, they probably were kept somewhere safe and out of the heat.
“Are you going on that tour?” Mike asked.
“No, “I said. “I think I’m just going to walk around a bit and find something to eat.”
Everyone was back at our meeting place at 1 p.m. as agreed. I was so relieved because we would be boarding a ferry on the Thames on our way back to our hotel in the open air, which meant I could leave my mask off, and breathe.
Thank God it didn’t rain.
The cruise on the Thames was our last tour activity.
That evening was our farewell dinner at the Radisson Vanderbilt, our hotel. I had pre-ordered pierogi with spinach and ordered a bottle of locally made apple cider at the bar.
No, this cider is not for kids. It definitely had alcohol.
We had a farewell toast and continued to enjoy our meal and swap travel stories. One of my tour mates collected e-mail addresses so that we could stay connected.
This tour included stops in Bath, (our starting point) Glastonbury, Wells, Avebury, Stow-on-the-Wold, Keswick, York, and London.
The beauty of being on an RSE tour is that it is a private tour. It comes with our very own fifty-five-seater like Evans Evans, our group size is limited to twenty-five travelers. So, we could spread out on the bus.
Most of our tour activities were also very intimate, especially in the countryside. We got to see private country estates and we got to go on a boat ride in the Lake District.
It is in the big cities where we encountered massive crowds.
The day I arrived in Bath it rained. After a week of sweltering heat in London, it rained from Victoria Coach Station all the way to Bath.
But it lasted only one day.
On our second day of the tour in Bath, we walked from our hotel to downtown Bath in the heat. Although we left our hotel around 8:15 a.m. it was already hot.
Our first stop was the Guildhall and the Guildhall Market.
The Guildhall is an 18th century municipal building in Bath.
“This was once the meeting place of powerful trade guilds,” said Mike as we made our way to downtown Bath. “The original building was just made of timber. But it was later re-built with stone.”
A lot of England’s buildings are historic. These buildings were not made to withstand the effects of climate change. Many buildings predating the 20th century cannot be retrofitted with air conditioning units. Contractors would have to drill holes in stone walls. Not an easy thing to do. Most of our hotels did not have air conditioning. We were given fans to cool us off.
“The current marketplace sits on a medieval market site,” Mike went on. “It was later combined with the Guildhall, which is the building you see today.”
Guildhall Market.
Mike let us to the entrance of a tunnel leading to the market. I put my mask back on since we are about to enter a building.
My rules for wearing my mask is as follows:
1. If I’m in a building that is not my house, I mask up.
2. If I’m in a confined space such as a public bus or on a plane, I mask up.
3. If I’m in a crowd inside or outside, where I am unable to keep my six feet of distance, I mask up.
We entered a tunnel that led to the indoor market. It was hotter than the outside. But I knew I had to come back here.
I love farmers markets. I love looking at their displays and seeing what is available. In this market there is a butchery selling sausages and meats. I’d love to take some sausage back to my hotel, but unfortunately I have no refrigerator.
There is also a sweets shop selling colorful lollipops, fresh fudge, and all things that smelled heavenly and would satisfy any sweet tooth, but would definitely increase my waistline. Next door was an ice cream shop selling all kinds of tantalizing flavors. Across from the ice cream shop was a tea shop selling tea and porcelain tea cups and saucers. Unfortunately, those dainty cups would get smashed in my luggage.
We did not stay long at the market. But I was definitely coming back.
Our next stop on the way to the Roman Baths was the Parade Gardens along the banks of the Avon River, the river that feeds Bath its famous baths.
And it had trees, thus making it a cooler place to rest in the shade and refresh ourselves which we definitely needed.
Our final stop was the Roman and Georgian Baths, in the heart of the city and not far from the Guildhall Market. We encountered crowds milling around on the cobblestone pedestrian square outside the ticketing offices of the Roman and Georgian baths. Others were in and out of shops that lined the square looking for souvenirs, while still others were eating outside under tents or umbrellas.
There were other tour groups in the square. Some had guides that had to shout at their guests to follow them. Others had Vox boxes like ours, that allowed guides to speak normally and not try to compete with the competition.
It was chaotic, but by then we were trained to follow Mike’s voice via the Vox box, or “whispers” as Rick calls them.
To avoid getting lost in the crowd, Mike found a spot in the queue closest to the entrance and that was also under some shade.
“Let’s do a buddy check,” he said.
My buddy, along with everyone else in our group, was present.
“Great,” said Mike. “Wait here while I get the tickets.”
After dispersing the tickets, we were also given audio guides from museum staff.
“You can turn off your whispers,” said Mike. “You won’t be needing them.”
Mike led us to an open air terrace overlooking the baths. The terrace had statues of famous Roman emperors and governors of Roman Britain. Unfortunately because these statues are exposed to the elements all were decaying.
Below us was the bath, which is about the size of a hotel swimming pool. But unlike a modern swimming pool I could not see the bottom. The water was a pukey green.
Visitors on the terrace to get a bird’s eye view of the ancient bath.
Mike told us this story while we were waiting in line.
“In 1978, a young girl had gone swimming in the restored baths with the Bath Dolphins, her swim club. Three days later, she died. She had contracted a bacteria commonly called the brain eating disease. That is why you cannot even touch the water.”
For this reason the pool is roped off to visitors. Docents are also there to make sure people stay out of the water.
After walking around the terrace I went downstairs.
Mask on.
I was forever taking off and putting on my mask. Terrace? Off. Stairwell? On. Bath? Off. Museum? On. It felt like I was following Mr. Miyagi’s advice to young Daniel LaRusso in the movie, The Karate Kid.
Wax on. Wax off.
There were so many other tour groups browsing the statues and the bath below. Better to be safe than sorry.
The bath level floor is the original rock. The surface was so uneven that it made walking tricky. A visitor could easily trip and fall if they are not watching where they are going.
I tried to get as close to the pool as possible without tripping. I could see what made the water an alien green.
Pukey green water.
Algae.
Then I headed to the underground museum.
Mask on, of course.
The museum depicted Roman life in Britain. There was an digital diorama of Roman craftsmen at work and women carrying clay pots. There was an exhibit of various textiles and clothing that they wore. There was even Roman and foreign currencies on display.
I tried to read and listen to my audio guide as much as possible so that I could learn something. But there were so many people in the museum that I kept bumping into them. It was impossible to keep my distance, especially in the underground exhibits. It was also hot and humid, making it much more uncomfortable. When I got to the pump rooms, it was much cooler. But by then my feet ached and I was hungry.
After seeing the baths and the underground workings of the ancient bath system, we were given the rest of the afternoon off. I headed back to the Guildhall Market to find something to eat. My mask flipping continued.
I did find a café in the market selling traditional British cuisine, including fish and chips. I was hungry for something light and I was still recovering from our opening dinner the night before.
Our first night in Bath we had a celebration dinner at a place called The Salamander in the heart of Bath. Our guide Mike had pre-ordered the same meal for everyone, except for the vegans/vegetarians in our group. The majority of us had Yorkshire pudding.
The Salamander Bar and Restaurant.
Only the “pudding” was gravy.
We were given plates with four bread rolls,(we had a private room with several tables) all with wells in the middle. We were to take a roll and place it on our own plate, and then take the gravy and pour it into the well.
Our meal also had slices of beef and grilled bell peppers and carrots. For dessert, we were introduced to a treat called sticky toffee pudding. Again, no “pudding”. It was a chocolate cake topped with a toffee crust and drizzled in syrup.
For drinks, we were offered three locally brewed beers. Wine was also available.
Yorkshire pudding.
I was still recovering from that meal. I was hoping to find something on the lighter side like a sandwich.
No such luck.
Half of the menu was so far above my head that I could not read the menu. The section I could read listed food items heavy on the carbs; Cornish pasties, quiche, fish and chips, and even a steak and kidney pie. All were served with a side of peas and fries – or chips as the British call them.
“What’s a pasty?” I asked.
“It’s a pie,” said the woman behind the counter.
“How big is it?”
“It’s about this big,” she replied, showing me the size with her hands. It’s a meat pie about the size of a Marie Callander’s single frozen pies. It was enough for a single person.
“I’ll have the pasty and a coke,” I said through my mask.
When my order came it was much more than I could eat. The peas and the pie should have been enough for me. The fries? Too much. I could only eat about three quarters of my meal.
As I was eating there were very few people in the market. There was another couple in the dining area of the café and the market vendors of course. But there were very few customers.
I felt comfortable in taking my mask off to eat my lunch. After I was done, I left the market and did more exploring of Bath on my way to my next destination, the Jane Austen Center.
Ironically, I have never read any of Jane Austen’s books. I only went because we had several things in common. We are both unmarried women each with our own sensibilities, Austen with her eighteenth and nineteenth century sensibilities and me with my twentieth and twenty-first century sensibilities.
A statue of Jane Austen.
The Austens first visited Bath in 1797 when Jane, her mother Cassandra Leigh, and her sister Cassandra, spent six weeks in Bath. In 1799, the family returned to Bath at the invitation of her brother Edward. At the time Bath was a very fashionable resort town that certainly provided plenty of entertainment. Indeed, this backdrop provided Jane with a lot of inspiration for her novels.
After the death of Jane’s father, the Reverend George Austen, the family moved back to Bath in 1805 but then left the city in 1806.
The Austen Center is a stone building with four main floors and an underground basement. The center is not the actual home of the Austens. The real home was just a few blocks above the center.
It is also very tight for a family of ten. George and Cassandra Leigh had eight boys and two girls.
It was just as tight for small groups of visitors in the era of COVID.
The ground floor (we’re doing this British style) is where I purchased my ticket and where the gift shop is located.
The first floor is the where the waiting room and the lecture hall was located. The second floor contained some of the family’s personal effects like clothing, furniture, books, and papers. The third floor was the Tea Room.
And if I had to go to the bathroom I had to go all the way down to the basement to use the loo.
“Go to the first floor,” said the woman who sold me the ticket.
I followed her instructions and walked up the creaky steps to the first floor to the waiting room. There were at least five other people in the room so I kept my mask on.
Suddenly the walls of the waiting room opened up and a male guide, dressed as Mr. Darcy invites us all to join him in the next room.
“Welcome to the Austen Center,” he said in a booming voice. “My name is Mr. Darcy and I’ll be your guide today.”
Mr. Darcy didn’t actually lead us around like Mike. He just gave us a short lecture about the Austen family and their connection to Bath. After that, we were allowed to explore on our own. We could even dress up in period costumes if we wanted to, but it was so hot that I was eager to get to the Tea Room to experience my first British tea and scones.
Revenge travel or revenge tourism. I have never heard of these terms until this year.
So, what is revenge travel? I was given a definition from Jason, one of my Evans Evans tour guides.
“After three years of enduring pandemic restrictions and lockdowns, people want to travel. This is the result.”
He said this as we were overlooking crowds of people waiting to get into the Windsor Castle grounds.
More about that crowd later.
I believe this trend of revenge tourism started in the spring of 2022 when a federal judge in Florida declared mask mandates were unconstitutional.
Since when did a judge become an epidemiologist?
I was mortified. I was planning my summer Rick Steves’ Europe (RSE) trip to Germany and Austria.
I also have psoriasis, which means I am already immunocompromised.
What should I expect to encounter at the airport and on the plane? I thought. How can I eat and drink safely while everyone else is unmasked?
I had those uncomfortable thoughts as I was watching a video of travelers on a plane ripping off their masks mid flight and twirling them in the air in celebration.
I was not celebrating.
Great. It’s everyone for themselves.
I did take the necessary precautions for my first RSE trip to Europe. Here’s the link to my story Traveling in the Era of COVID:
2023 is the first full year that travel has returned to normal. Governments have lifted their mask and vaccine mandates, leaving individual travelers and businesses to make their own COVID restrictions. RSE is no different.
Children playing in a water fountain at the Victoria Albert Museum.
2022
1. Travelers must be fully vaccinated.
2. Travelers must agree to abide by RSE’s COVID restrictions and sign RSE’s document.
3. On the first day of the tour, travelers must take a COVID test and submit the results by showing the actual test or a photo of the results.
4. Travelers must also show their vaccine documents at the first meeting to the tour guide.
5. Travelers must wear their masks while on the tour bus and on all public transportation as stipulated in the country they are visiting. They are also subject to that country’s COVID restrictions.
6. No eating is allowed on the bus. Only drinking water is allowed.
7. RSE guides reserve the right to enforce COVID restrictions on the group as they see fit. They also reserve the right to ask a guest to take a COVID test if they suspect that traveler is exhibiting symptoms.
2023
Rules one and two remain unchanged.
3. No COVID test is needed. However, RSE strongly recommends having them just in case.
4. Travelers are still required to show their vaccine documents at the first meeting.
5. Masks are now optional.
6. Travelers can consume cold food and drink while on the bus.
Rule seven is also unchanged.
I had also booked two-day trips with Evans Evans Tours in London. Once again, it was up to individual tour companies and travelers to make their own decisions regarding COVID protection. In Evans Evans’ case, they left it up entirely to their travelers.
My first tour was with Evans Evans. I took a day trip to Leeds Castle, Dover, and Canterbury.
This was my first experience with revenge tourism.
The meeting point for both of my tours with Evans Evans was at Victoria Coach Station. RSE had warned me in their guidebooks that Victoria Coach Station was a thieves’ paradise. I could see why. Every seat at all gates was taken and there was barely enough room to keep my distance from the nearest traveler. In other words, that station was packed with travelers.
Both tours gave visitors wristbands to identify each tour group. Both tour buses could each seat fifty-five people.
Both were packed. All fifty-five seats on both vehicles were occupied. There were no open seats.
I had to wear my mask for both tours even though the heat made it uncomfortable. London, and most of Europe, was baking under an intense heatwave. The BBC kept reporting temperatures around England. Some cities checked in at thirty-five degrees Celsius (ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit). It was so intense that I saw children splashing around in the water fountain in the courtyard of the Albert and Victoria Museum in their underwear.
Thankfully the buses had A/C.
Leeds Castle in Kent.
Evans Evans Tour One: Leeds Castle, Dover, and Canterbury
Our first stop was Leeds Castle in Kent. This castle was small compared to the other castles I later visited. So, it was easy to browse. I spent no more than twenty-five minutes touring the castle itself.
The rest of the estate was large enough for tourists to wander around, so there wasn’t much a large crowd.
Our next stop was the white cliffs of Dover. This area is immortalized in a World War II song of the same name, as allied troops were preparing for the liberation of France. There is a plaque commemorating the invasion of Dunkirk in 1940.
The beach at Dover was packed with holidaymakers lounging on the beach. Tour operators were busy renting out their equipment.
I walked on the sand. Thankfully, I had sneakers on because the sand felt more like rocks. Certainly, that is not what I’m used to in Hawaii. But I did get pictures of those cliffs and that plaque.
White Cliffs of Dover — and beach goers.
I wish I could have spent more time in Dover. But we were only given ten minutes. I only had enough time to stretch my legs and take a few pictures.
Then it was on to Canterbury.
As we pulled into the bus station in Canterbury there were several other tour buses that were already parked. The town was bustling with visitors. Many came to see the church. But there were also pride events going on.
Daniel, our guide, pointed out his restaurant recommendations to us as we made our way to the church.
“This is a nice vegan restaurant. That restaurant has great Italian food.”
I looked for any restaurants with outdoor seating. If the outdoor seating area was full, that would mean the indoor seating was also full. I did not feel comfortable eating at any establishment where every table, indoors and outdoors, was taken.
When we arrived at the entrance of the church Daniel made us wait at a square across from the cathedral so that he could get tickets for all fifty-five of us. There were other tour guides doing the same with their groups. So here I am, standing in a crowd of people in the sweltering heat.
I put my mask back on.
Daniel came back with the tickets in hand. He distributed them to all of his guests before we crossed the street and entered the church.
After we entered the archway, leading to the entrance to the church, the crowd started to disperse. We were allowed to sit in the sanctuary to cool off and rest while Daniel told us the history of the church.
After the tour of the church was over, we were allowed some free time to wander the city of Canterbury. I was hungry and it was past my lunchtime. So, I kept my eyes peeled for restaurants as I made my way back to the bus station.
Packed.
Canterbury Cathedral.
COVID, a heatwave, and crowds just don’t mix well together.
I ended up somewhere in the city center where there was loud music. There were several businesses promoting their wares to the LGBTQ community, including a pink truck calling itself The Pink Ambulance. It was a salon on wheels where patrons could get their hair and face done, as well as purchase cosmetics and accessories.
Right behind The Pink Ambulance was an Italian food truck that had two empty tables.
I ordered two calzones and a coke. It was hot so I took the table that had some shade behind The Pink Ambulance.
Surprisingly, there were not that many people taking part in any pride event. My guess is that it was just too hot, and perhaps more people would be out and about in the evening when it’s cooler.
By then I would be back in London in my hotel room.
But for now, it felt good just to be away from my tour group and to have a relaxing lunch without the crowds.
xinghuajiangsu 
