Our First Day in England

Thursday, March 30th

We are here! We're knee deep in "cultural shock", but I'm not sure what part of this adventure is causing the greatest adjustment.  We are used to a relatively sedate suburban life and now we find ourselves living in a closely packed, hustling, busy urban world.  The fact that our urban environment is in a different country may not be the major adaptation.

Bristol is an amazing town of about 500,000 people, all of whom seem to be on the road at all times.  Not only are there a horrendous number of vehicles, traveling at break-neck speeds, but they are driving on the wrong side of side of the road.  To add to the confusion, the roads are marked with all kinds of unintelligible markings, scrawled on the roadbed itself, which most of the drivers understand.  There are no stop signs. Side streets have double white broken lines at the entrance to major streets on the left side and single white broken lines on the other half.  Some streets have double yellow lines parallel and adjacent to the curb.  When we asked, we were told that meant  "no parking".

Everywhere, parking is at a premium.  But there are no parking meters.  I'm starting to figure out that along the sidewalks at unknown intervals are machines that, given the correct monetary incentive, will issue receipts that can be placed on the dashboard to keep the parking police at bay.

Because Bristol is built on hills, there are very few straight or parallel streets.  I would guess that the long straight streets felt bad about this so the longer streets change their name every half mile or so.  The street names are very colorful but, because of the resistance of the locals to put up traffic signs, there are very few street signs.  What streets that are marked have their identifying signs attached to the sides of conveniently placed buildings - some as high as the third floor.  The house numbers seem to follow a pattern, but in some areas are scrambled - causing our cabby to mumble under his breath.  It all seems to work out if you know where you're going and you should only get lost once when you go to a new place.

The urban center of Bristol is in stark contrast to the Bristol International Airport.  When we landed on Thursday, I was amazed.  It looked like we landed in a farmer's field.  There was nothing but beautiful green farmer's fields in all directions.  The terminal was at the end of the runway and was a very modern structure but lacked any "jet ways".  Inside the terminal was amazingly busy.  There were a fair number of shops and concessions, and lots of people.

I was able to find a Barclay's ATM machine on the third floor and was relieved when the machine dispensed the requested two hundred British pounds.  We now had enough money to pay the cabby for the ride into town.  Cabs were easy to get at the taxi stand outside the terminal.  You had to go into this little office and request a taxi, tell them where you were going and how many people would be riding.  They gave us a chit telling us exactly how much our ride to the Agents' offices would be - 18 pounds ($31.5).

During the ride into town the cabby tried to establish an all-time speed record on the most circuitous course imaginable.  The fare was a set price, so we just settled back and enjoyed the ride.  The plan was to have the cab take us to directly to the Letting Agent's office (Letting is British for renting).

Queen's Road looking north toward Whiteladies Road                                Queen's Road looking south toward Park Row

The letting agent's office is on "Whiteladies Road".  The agent was much younger than we expected, but seemed quite competent.  He had sent us copies to the contract by email, so we knew what to expect.  We signed the papers, he called us a cab, handed us the keys, and off we went.  He did explain, as we rode out of sight, that his job was to find qualified renters and that once that was done it was up to the landlord from there.  He did say that he had been unable to contact the landlord, but did leave a message on his answering machine.

The flat was rented as furnished, but there were a few things missing.  The cabby that drove us from Whiteladies Road helped unload the luggage as Nancy took a quick inventory of the apartment and then drove us across town to the Ikea Store.  We were able to purchase the sheets, kitchen towels, bath towels and glasses we needed.  Next to the Ikea store is a large grocery store. We bought the basic fundaments for breakfast the next morning and then discovered a flaw in our planning.

We had been up with little or no sleep since leaving San Francisco and were pretty well used up.  It was late afternoon, and we called a cab from the grocery store.  The cab company said that it would be 30-45 minutes before the cab would come.  Waiting was not pleasant  - there was a light rain.  After an hour there was still no cab although several other people waiting with their groceries had their cabs show up.  We called the cab company and they had lost our request.  We called another cab company suggested by the clerks in the store and they had a cab to us within 15 minutes.

We got back to the flat, tired and bedraggled; but couldn't rest.  Getting over "jet lag" requires matching the local time cycle.  Plus, we wanted to unpack a little, get the flat in some reasonable shape, and have some dinner.  We found a "fish and chip" shop about a block from the flat.

The local fish and chip shop lists the fish and the chips as separate menu items.  But, the chips were abundant and the fish was a full side of Icelandic Cod.  The cod was delicious.  The fries could have been a little crisper, but I suppose that is a personal taste.  While we waited for our fish we regaled the clerk tales of our adventure to date.  He offered that if we came to his shop around 4 o'clock in the afternoon the next day, while business was still slow, he would drive us around to show us where to find the local shops that we would need for our visit.

The fish and chip clerk wasn't the only act of unusual kindness we encountered. Most of the people we interfaced with went out of their way for us.  So much for the British being cold and reserved.

When we got home, we found that the Ikea fitted sheets were the wrong size and overhung the bed by a foot in either direction.  The sheets would have to be returned.  So, we changed into some soft clothes and slept under our coats.

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