“You got that right.”
Debs ordered us a pint each of a proper Guinness, manufactured and sold in Ireland, and we found a nice table and took turns hitting the ladies’ room without schlepping luggage.
“Good old Patrick said we should make sure to have a pint or two for him,” Debs said as we sat waiting for our drinks. “Come to think of it, I don’t remember the last time the poor guy took a vacation that didn’t include time off for his coronary bypass.”
“You think he would have learned after that major wake-up call,” I said. “You know, in Sweden, employees are encouraged to take regular breaks from work, including having an allowance for ‘mental health days’. It’s greatly improved their job satisfaction, cut down on burnout, and increased people’s longevity.”
“Yeah, someone needs to remind Marcus, the insufferable slave driver, about that,” Debs said with a groan.
Just then, the drinks arrived. We lifted our glasses, examining the dark brew and its thick frothy head, which looked really comforting and smelled delicious.
“Cheers!” Debs said. “To ‘mental health days.’”
As we took our first sip, Debs’s eyes rolled back into her head. She protected her Guinness brand pint glass with both hands, and I don’t think a vice squad could have pried it away from her lips.
When she simply had to take a breath or die, she held the glass in front of her reverently. “It’s nothing at all like back home.”
I laughed and pointed at where the cream adhered to her top lip. “You have a Guinness mustache.”
“You have one too, you know.”
An elderly Irish gent at a nearby table leaned over, his ruddy complexion and glassy eyes suggesting he was no stranger to the finer quality of the local brews. “No, lasses, you’ll never have a Guinness mustache anywhere but here.”
“Good to know.” Debs clinked glasses with him, and he ordered us two more pints.
It took what seemed like hours just to pour our drinks. I watched in awe as the bartender first filled a half a pint each, left it there to sit, served more than a few other customers, and then returned to our order to finish up.
The quip opening was so obvious, I couldn’t resist: “This long a wait on anything would drive a native New Yorker to drink.”
But the wait was well worth it.
I turned to the man. “Thanks again for the drinks. I can’t get over how incredible this tastes. You’ve made two new Guinness fans.”
“It’s my pleasure to watch you fine-looking ladies enjoy yourselves.” He raised his own glass and swallowed a hefty mouthful, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
Debs drank the second glass of creamy confection much as she did the first, holding the pint glass as if she were hoarding liquid gold. It was that good. Better than any dessert I’d had in a long time.
But all good things had to end.
“Time to go,” I told Debs.
“Where are you ladies off to?” the bartender asked.
“We’re heading to Devon,” I said.
“Devon?” As if a caricature of himself, his lower lip jutted out, forming a comical expression of utter dismay. “What are you going to do a thing like that for? You only just got here.”
“We have another flight to catch,” I said, taking Debs’s suitcase and mine while she put on the layers of clothing she’d peeled off in the bar.
With a wonderful taste in our mouths, a fine feeling in our tummies, and a pleasant buzz, we headed back to the terminal, singing, “My bonnie lies over the ocean,” or something to that effect. Mostly laughing was more the way it sounded. We held our boarding passes inserted in our passports ready for the security staff and worked on snapping out of our tipsiness before heading to the departure gate. At that point, my overtired eyes stung so badly, it hurt to blink.
Debs and I breezed through The UK Border Agency at Dublin, well almost. I’m sure we made quite the impression with our over-the-top American jubilation, gushing about Guinness, about the friendly people and amazing greenery, and about how we wished we had longer to really explore. A virtually empty airport didn’t help us blend in either. The time difference, five hours ahead of our New York internal clocks, had me almost sleeping on my feet.
I thought the immigration officer, a handsome man in his early thirties, if that, would suck Debs into his booth, ravish her into a coma, and make her his love slave. I stood behind the white line and saw the look in that man’s eyes that meant he could see his unborn children as he fell victim to Debs’s charm. He seemed to struggle to tear his attention away from her face and back to stamping her passport. It didn’t help that she could be the biggest flirt on the planet. It was ages before he said “next” and she was through.
When she was close enough that I could grasp her elbow, I ushered her through pre-boarding check-in. “Sheesh, you could have been knocked up in one of those booths,” I cracked.
“No way, he was really sweet. A total gentleman.”
I rolled my eyes. “And you could read his character in two minutes—good one. Come on, they still need to check our bags for explosives. Although, I’d say you’re the bomb.”
Debs swatted my arm, and I laughed.
The short flight from Dublin to Bristol was noisy but quick. Debs could barely manage all her luggage, so we rented a cart after we grabbed our suitcases off the conveyor belt. I was already impressed at how efficiently everything was going. We took a plush airport car service straight to the hotel. It was a good thing all costs were on the company bankroll, that’s all I can say.
During the one-and-a-half-hour drive, whenever I could get a word in, I talked to Debs, mostly about the scenery. The green fields of England seemed to go on without end, kind of like the American strip malls on Commercial Boulevard in Fort Lauderdale, where one strip mall resembled every other. In England, green fields, some dotted with sheep, cows or just grass, reminded me of a natural habitat of strip malls. More land here was used for farming than shopping. But while I spoke about the landscape, Debs kept steering the conversation back to what the British men would be like. She kept talking about that ever-so-friendly immigration officer.
When I called her on her obsession with him, she said archly, “You seemed to really enjoy the woman who patted you down in Dublin before the flight to Bristol.”
“No way,” I protested too loudly. Truth was, she had nice eyes, lovely natural red hair—shame it had been held up in such a tight knot. Her bangs had been swept to one side so as not to obscure a decent view of her green eyes; let her loose, and she’d be a total knockout. While I had done my best not to stare at her, truly I did, especially when her warm hands had felt around the inside of my waistband. Thank God she hadn’t gone anywhere near my heated crotch: they would have had to pull the smoke alarm.
This reaction to random strangers was not anything new: Call it hormones or unbidden abstinence, but even watching TV was hazardous these days. Commercials with sexy women had me combusting. Both femmes and butches alike turned me to total mush. I was often reduced to a soaking wet horny teenager at the slightest provocation—a nearly exposed breast or well-shaped butt in tight pants could render me insatiable. I thought women my age were supposed to be over sex; it sure wasn’t the case with me. The airline security guard had grazed over my breasts, and if she didn’t feel my nipples harden, then it was her loss.
“For someone who denies enjoying a pat down,” Debs said, “you sure looked turned on to me. I’m sorry, but your pointy tits gave you away. Am I right or am I right!”
“Of course not. That’s stupid. And did it ever cross your mind that it might have been a bit chilly after I removed my jacket?”
“Ha! Then why are you blushing riper than a cherry tomato?”
Unwilling to share erotic images with Debs, even if sh
e’d eat it up and share more than a few of her own trysts with me, I ignored her comment and did an abrupt about-face from my salacious thoughts.
“The grass certainly is greener on this side of the pond,” I said.
“No doubt about that,” she replied as we passed acres of fields.
As we approached the outskirts of Devon, jet lag hit me in an unexpected instant. One minute I was taking it all in, and the next I would be out for the count if allowed the luxury. I powered down the window, hoping fresh air would keep me from dropping off to sleep before we made it to the hotel room. When that didn’t help, Debs nudged me each time I started to drift off. Although I thought, quit waking me up, loud and clear, reminiscent of all those gentle and not-so-gentle tugs my mother employed to rouse me out of bed for school, I was physically too exhausted to shake her off. I gradually opened my eyes, unable to glare at Debs through the feel of sand under heavy lids.
She sat at the edge of her seat, straining the seat belt, but without a worry in the world. “It has a whole different look than our beaches,” Debs said. “I can’t believe the sand is brick red!”
Sticking my head out of a moving car made me feel like a kid. The scent of sea air triggered the olfactories to hop, skip and jump toward memory lane, which revived me somewhat. As I pulled my head back in, I said, “Seagulls cawing remind me of home.”
“I know what you mean,” Debs said. “We spent summers at the Jersey Shore. What did you guys do?”
“Besides drive my mother crazy the minute we were bored?”
“Boredom isn’t even in your vocabulary.”
“True. I had to be busy every waking moment. If Mom hadn’t guilted my brothers into letting me tag along, I’d have been an insufferable brat. Mom would pile us all into the station wagon and drop us off at Jones Beach, and Dad would pick us up on his way home from work. We’d hit the sand running, body surf, tan, or get hopelessly burnt to a crisp. Sometimes we played touch football. I had to keep up or get lost; I chose to keep up.”
I glanced out the window at a great view of the sea from the left and lots of shops and restaurants on the right. There were plenty of people wading, a few swimmers, but nowhere near as many as we got at Jones Beach, back in New York.
“If you think the ocean is cold at Long Island beaches, I hear the water temperature here is much worse,” I said.
“I’ll stick to indoor swimming then. Our hotel has two pools, indoor and out, a spa and workout room. If we get up early enough, we should go.”
Our driver pointed out landmarks. “On the right is Princess Theater, there might be tickets left. And there is the hundred-year-old Torquay Pavilion. It’s closed for renovations at the minute, but hopefully the Council will get it sorted before too long. It’d be a shame if they don’t reopen it.”
“Oh, Janalyn, isn’t this beautiful? Look at the fountain over there on the grass. It’s like a botanical garden.”
I opened the abridged guide I’d bought before I left. “It says here the Torquay Pavilion was built in 1912 as a ‘palace of pleasure’ to hold concerts and other events.”
“I like the sound of that,” Debs said.
I grinned. “Why am I not surprised?”
“You can stroll along the pier or stay on the pavement,” said our driver. “Just be mindful of traffic, careful not to look the wrong way when using the crosswalk. Those zigzag lines on the road are zebra crossings.” He pronounced it zeh-bra.
“You have zebras in Torquay?” Debs’s eyes widened.
He chuckled. “No, it’s what they’re called. We have pelican and toucan crossings.”
“That’s funny. Any other animal crossings we should know about?” I said.
“No, that’s it. What I meant to say is pedestrians have right of way, but don’t trust without looking first.”
I was about to inform him that I’d learned to cross the street as a child and could certainly handle it without lessons, but Debs distracted me before I could comment. “Look over there, Janalyn.”
Long and circular rows of lovely flowers were arranged in elaborate displays of color mapped out for optimal visual appeal—primrose, violas, geraniums, marigolds and others; I couldn’t keep track. Groups of what looked a lot like foreign students hung out on well-manicured lawns. Tour buses and local ones were buzzing around roundabouts as if they were toys on a play track. There were sunbathers, dog-walkers, shoppers…
Torquay was crammed full of people. Some were using their phones to snap photos of the elaborate adornments that went a long way to further beautify a seaside town—as if the sand and sea weren’t enough. As we passed the harbor, every outside table was filled with diners overlooking the bay while enjoying food and drink under the sun. I couldn’t wait to explore it all for myself.
Our hotel then appeared before our eyes. The impressive building, dating back to the reign of Queen Victoria, appeared even more majestic situated at the top of a cliff.
“The Imperial Hotel, ladies,” our driver said as he cut the ignition. “I’ll open the boot.” He popped the trunk, thankfully, or else I would not have known why anyone would open a boot, especially when wearing regular shoes. I paid the fare from company funds, tipping twenty percent, as I would a helpful and pleasant New York City cabbie. The man’s eyes lit up as if I’d given him a Queen’s ransom. He put a hustle in his bustle and insisted on carrying our bags. “Leave everything to me,” he said.
I gathered Debs was tired, or else she would have provided constant commentary.
At first glimpse of The Imperial Hotel, all seemed okay.
“The building is nineteenth-century Victorian from Torquay’s Golden Age,” I told Debs, remembering lines from my guidebook. “Emperor Napoleon III, among other notable celebrities, slept here.”
“Interesting.” Debs stifled a yawn. I bumped her with my hip.
She grinned sleepily. “I’m listening. Don’t take it personally.”
“You think we’ll have a room with a view?”
“Doubt it.”
The driver left us with our bags and a “Cheers” before he left.
I was standing in a hotel that dated back to 1866. The oldest hotel I was familiar with, The Plaza Hotel in New York City, had opened its doors in 1907. Torbay had been a popular seaside resort town that had gone from being a small fishing village of 800 people to a fashionable watering place in Napoleon’s day, where the invading French navel fleets had anchored themselves. The naval officers must have liked the sheltered bay so much that they brought their wives with them. There were lots of local celebrities who had lived here too, like Rudyard Kipling, Oscar Wilde, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who had benefited from water treatments at a bath house for her medical condition.
The lobby was plush. Everything about this historic hotel reeked of opulence, grandeur, and a timelessness that had not been lost even after what must have been many repairs over the years. It’s no wonder that Agatha Christie, a local resident, set a few of her murder mysteries here. It must have been really something in its day. With a perfect view of the ocean, the Imperial was in walking distance to the beaches, the railroad, and High Street, with plenty of tourist attractions, restaurants, and shopping.
There was already a long line at check-in. A hostess with a blonde bob and a mouth full of crooked but perfectly charming teeth welcomed us, clipboard in her hand.
“Good afternoon, ladies. May I take your names, please?”
I spoke for us, and she put a check by our names.
“Welcome. If you’ll join the queue for registration, sign in again.”
I loved the way she said ‘a-gain.’
“You’ll be given your packets,” she continued. “After you’ve gathered conference materials, be sure to pick up luncheon tickets for the duration of your stay. Would you like a cup
of tea and a biscuit while you wait?”
“No thanks,” Debs said.
I didn’t want anything either, as I was still full from the Guinness. Once out of earshot, Debs leaned into me and whispered, “How quaint. She sounds so English. I love it.”
“We are in England.”
“Thank you for stating the obvious.”
“You’re welcome, my dear.”
We weren’t standing around long before we heard a raucous laugh. Debs beat me to it and nodded in the direction of the commotion.
“Look over there. Who is she?”
I turned to see where Debs pointed and fixated on the friendly little group, especially the center of attention: She was nearly a head taller than the other women, but that’s not the only reason she stood out from the crowd. For all eyes were riveted on this one woman, including mine and Debs’s.
She was well built—I want to say sturdy—with messy short hair and dressed in muddy cargo shorts. In fact, her ankle boots and socks were caked with mud, as if she had just come from a hike, and I was hard-pressed to find a part of her not at least smudged in dirt, if not outright covered in it. This was certainly not the attire for conference attendees anyone would expect. But the most distinguishing feature in this most unusual ensemble was the bloodied gauze that encased her left hand.
“I wonder what that’s all about?” Debs asked.
“Maybe she’s homeless,” I said, “and had to fight off a group of muggers or nasty savages.”
“She can’t be homeless. They just handed her a course packet and nametag.”
“Oh right, can you read it?”
“No.”
My gaze remained fixed on the not-homeless stranger, but I hadn’t ruled out ‘mud wrestler’ as a means of explaining her appearance. She and the organizer seemed like old friends as she spoke with grand gestures and an animated expression to the entire attentive group. It was hardly the rapport one would expect between a derelict and the chief of the conference. Upon closer inspection, I was immediately taken by her commanding presence. She was surrounded by people who appeared to hang on her every word. I didn’t want to turn away, but the pesky problem was that it was our turn at the registration table. I had no choice.
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