When in St. Helens

Sorry for the delay. It takes a while to upload more than 200 photos to Flickr, tag them, add descriptions, and watch them a few times while sighing and reminiscing. I've also been getting actual work done on my manuscript and query letter, by the way.

Where were we? Ah, yes, we were on our way back from Wales to Preston.

Monday morning after Wales, I slept. That afternoon, I forced myself to get up, get out, and at least attempt the public transportation because I knew without it, I'd be sitting alone in a hotel room the better part of two weeks. I managed to catch the bus in front of the hotel, ride into Preston proper, walk and shop a bit, and locate a Costa Coffee where I drank hot chocolate and waited for Todd to retrieve me. It was enough for my first day alone in England.

I discovered my favorite new store that afternoon. Marks & Spencer is like a mini Target, with a little bit of everything. They have a food section with all kinds of prepared items and basic groceries. A tourist's paradise for food on the cheap! I stocked up on scones (which were quite good, but very different from the more homemade variety), peanut butter and bread, and of course, dark chocolate digestive biscuits. Oh, and my favorite new beverage--diet sparkling orange juice. I've searched for it since coming home to no avail. I guess I could mix diet Sprite and OJ for the same effect. Ryan assures me he's been mixing OJ and Mountain Dew for years.

It also turns out English marshmallows are slightly different, and I like them. They're a little on the dry side, and that's just how I like my marshmallows. I brought home a bag from M&S--a mixture of pink and white sugarcoated yum!

We ate in a restaurant that evening that looked pleasant enough from the road and had open fires and friendly servers. Against the recommendation of a friend pre-trip, I ordered a hamburger because I really wanted to know what all the fuss was. She thought someone told her they were boiled, and that they were not good, but it turns out they are broiled. I'm no stranger to broiled hamburgers cuz that's how we got them growing up, but this was a rather large broiled burger that sunk in my belly like a stone. The fries were good, though, as they were most everywhere. It turns out the restaurant was part of a chain called Embers, only each one also has its own unique name. For the record, that was my last hamburger until I returned home.

The next day, I set out to ride the bus, then train, to Liverpool. Unfortunately, some crazy person chose that day to make a bomb threat, and the trains shut down for a few hours when I was approximately 10 minutes away from Liverpool by train, but no telling how long by foot or bus. We were put out of the train at St. Helens. St. Helen's what, you may ask. I dunno. Just St. Helens. It was not a tourist destination, but it turns out this was one of my favorite afternoons. I wandered, picked up a few books in some charity shops, bought the best shopping bag ever for 99p, and ate lunch in a restaurant I'm pretty sure hadn't seen any tourists before or since.

Carol's was a tiny little place, but the menu looked safe, affordable, and left little up to interpretation. Or so I thought. I learned a lot about dining in the UK there.

The waitress for this four or five table dining room asked what she could get me after I seated myself. I ordered a Diet Pepsi (which arrived with the requisite three ice cubes), and I thought I'd order my food after I perused the menu. I believe I was meant to order my food at the same time as my drink, but the waitress finally did return. I'd decided on a "jacket"--a baked potato on this side of the pond. You could choose a topping: chilli (always with two l's there), tuna, beans, or cheese.

When I asked if I could have chilli and cheese, the waitress's eyes got huge. "Chili and cheese?" she said. "How unusual!" I nodded and smiled and wondered what I'd gotten myself into. It arrived, though, looking much as it does when I order the same thing in Texas. Tasted good, too.

I decided on a scone with cream and jam for dessert, and the waitress returned a few moments later to inform me they were out of cream. I said that was fine, I'd just have it plain. I wasn't feeling like a huge fan of jam with no cream that day. "No butter?" she asked. I shrugged and said, sure, I'll have butter. I was already feeling pretty risky after having chilli and cheese on my jacket, but why not live on the edge, right?

Before I knew it, the waitress was rummaging behind the counter for another scone (they were packaged, but not too bad) and she said something about her daughter and then I lost her.

After I ate my scone (spread with butter, of course), I waited for a while, wondering how to pay. Finally, I went to the counter and asked if I should pay there. She said yes, and rang up my total, and I decided to be brave at that point and admit all my ignorance at once. I had no idea whether or not I was supposed to tip. The guide books advise that tipping is not consistent in the UK as it is here--15-20% of the bill for dining--and not expected in many places. The trick is figuring out where, and if so, what percentage. Ten percent seems to be norm, more or less. When I asked what was customary, the lady shrugged and said it wasn't expected, but I handed her a one pound coin (probably about 10% of my total) and she giggled.

Then I asked whether anyone had ever ordered chilli and cheese on their jacket and she said, "NO, never." I told her where I come from, you don't get one without the other.

At that point, the only other customers in the place, an elderly couple sitting by the counter, jumped in. "Oh," said the wife, "You're an American! I love Americans! They tip everyone, and they're always, 'Thank you!' and 'Have a nice day!' and they're just so nice!" She continued to rave about how well she and her grandchildren had been treated on four trips to the states, and I basked in her warmth. I'd been feeling a little lonely and isolated up to that point, and it was a welcome change.

Her husband began telling me stories of serving with Americans in the Korean and Viet Nam wars and a place called Burton Wood where the American soldiers shipped in and out or stayed when they were injured. ("Buh-ton Ward! Ward, like ward!" he said, banging the table when I couldn't understand his pronunciation of wood, smiling all the while.) He told me of American soldiers who always had candy in their pockets for the local children, and ones who married the girls and spirited them away to America.

His wife said he'd tell me stories until I told him not to, so I finally did when I felt it was time to leave. They gave me directions to a glass blowing museum, and I wandered over there for a bit and finally made my way back to the train, which was running again, and back to Preston.

And as it turns out, the waitress had been telling me how her daughter was happy because she'd already spread my scone with jam when they realized they were out of cream, so she got to eat it when I ordered it plain ... with butter.

I thought I was going to tell you about York in this post, but I guess that's for another day. That also means no Flickr link. Instead, I'll show you two of the five photos I took those two days right here. (I was resting my shutter finger after Wales.) No worries, I took plenty the next two days.

The first is St. Helens City Hall. The second is the war memorial in the square, with the first batch of what I'm sure became many, many more poppy-decorated crosses and arrangements. Armistice Day was a huge occasion while we were there, and the poppy is the symbol of rememberance. I have a particularly embarrassing story to share about this very thing while we were in Edinburgh.

Next stop, York.