Friday morning, and we were at Waterloo, waiting for the train to our next tourist desination, Hampton Court Palace. I saw a gorgeous, strapping American boy in a tight tank-top and pointed him out to Brett, at which Brett retorted "Sometimes I think that's all you're interested in," which I thought was both unfair and inaccurate. I didn't say anything, but it got under my skin. I spent some time trying to analyze why it rankled so much. After all, I know that what he said isn't true. For some reason, though, I hate judgemental comments directed against my behavior. It's probably because I grew to fear such comments from my Dad, when I was a teenager. He'd call me a big girl, for exaple, if I wanted to see a movie he thought was a woman's movie.

I tried to bury my peevishness, but when Brett reacted a litle irritably to another quite innocent remark of mine, I snapped back angrily at him. Still, this was our first angry exchange of the trip, which isn't bad considering we've been in such close proximity for over a week now.

Hampton Court Palace

The gardens

A spectacular staircase

Clouds. Duh.

Brett pretending to be asleep.

Keith sheltering under the trees from the sun

Brett missing his chickens back home in Berkeley

Waiting for the train back home from Hampton Court, while court jesters frolic in the background.

My snappishness at the station not withstanding, I was in a good, energetic mood all day. I can't say that our day at Hampton Court was the most enthralling tourist trip I've taken, but there were some beautiful things to look at. It's an old palace, "acquired" by Henry VIII from Cardinal Wolesley, and modernized, in parts, by subsequent monarchs. The older rooms are very impressive: massive, intricately carved and painted ceilings, enormous 16th century tapestries woven in gold and silver lace, and spectacular Italian paintings. Many of the rooms were curiously unfurnished, which surprised me. I'm sure the Royal Family has enough ancient knick-knacks tucked away to furnish Hampton Court several times over.

England's in the midst of a heat-wave. Headlines such as "Phwor, What a Scorcher!" are cropping up in the tabloids. The Underground is horrible, especially at rush-hour, when you're jammed up against somebody's armpit because of the crush of bodies. It amazes me to see men in suits in the subway trains in these conditions. Unlike the New York subway, the underground trains here aren't air-conditioned.

I found myself contrasting this with my life in San Francisco, where the weather's usually a lot more comfortable, where I can walk to work, and where I can drive everywhere with ease. It makes for an enormous difference in quality of life.

Weighing against this you have London's wonderful cultural life. I'm constantly seeing posters for exhibits or concerts I'd like to see. And that's the downside of traveling with a companion - I don't truly feel that I can do what I want. There are trade-offs in everything though. On this trip, compared to my long, lonely trip last Summer, I'm a lot happier.

Since we got here, the only cute boys we've seen have been Americans. Compared to the pallid, unconfident Brits, the Americans look like princes - clean; long, perfect limbs; competent, solid, frequently beautiful faces, and cute (if casual) clothes. Of course, my years in San Francisco have conditioned me; changed my ideals about beauty. A guy in a simple white Hanes t-shirt and cargo pants looks nicely dressed to me, while the British equivalent - a guy in sports slacks and a loose-fitting short-sleeved button-up shirt - looks 'orrible. But I'm sure many Brits would look at the American guy and think he was a slob.

Saturday morning, we were up early to finish packing, clean the flat (it was one of those rapid cleanings I specialize in, making much use of toilet paper to give things the appearance of cleanliness), and get over to Waterloo. For some reason, we were fearing the rush-hour on the subway, with our suitcases, until we realized, duh, it's Saturday. I'd only slept about one and a half hours, so I was extremely grouchy.

I got even grouchier at "Waterloo International". For some reason, I was expecting Eurostar through the Chunnel to be a sleek, modern, comfortable experience. Instead, the Eurostar terminal at Waterloo is a disaster of design. A narrow, long building with waiting areas, boarding escalators, snack bars and duty-free stores all competing for the same space. All of the trains were running considerably late, so there were lots of frayed tempers to keep me company. The only amusing thing about it was that the station announcer kept blaming the French for the delayed trains.

Paris, Sat, Jul 28, 2001, 11:47 PM

So now we're in Paris, and we've just had a fun evening out and about with our host Jean-Marc. Since I got so little sleep last night, I was about ready to shrivel up and die when we got home just now, so I'll just finish this off and get it posted. I'll fill you in on what we did this evening when I write again tomorrow. Now to bed. I've got the uncomfortable bed again. Something's wrong here :)