BSG Goes Globetrotting, Part I

Dispatches from Across the Pond

As part of my yearlong personal growth list (which, let’s be honest, is equal parts “find myself” and “find the best pastries in Europe”), I packed my biggest suitcase – yes, the one that can double as a twin sized bed – and boarded a plane with great anticipation to explore parts of our world I hadn’t yet seen. I also hoped to meet people along the way who’d leave an indelible mark on my heart – or at least recommend fun places to eat and share some solid travel tips. Since we were abroad for nearly two weeks and, true to form, I have a lot to say (you’re shocked, I know), I’ve broken this epic saga into two posts. First up: our one-night stay at the delightfully retro TWA Hotel at JFK Airport, followed by a hop across the pond to jolly old London town, that shimmering jewel in the UK’s well-adorned crown.

First leg: Jet-Setting Nostalgia at the TWA Hotel

Have you heard about the TWA Hotel at JFK? If not, allow me to whisk you away on a glamorous journey through time – minus the jet lag and cramped cabins of economy flights. Nestled in the iconic former TWA flight center designed by the brilliant architect Eero Saarinen in the early 1960s, this hotel had been calling my name since it opened in 2019. This trip felt like the perfect time to answer that call and not just because we could act out scenes from Catch Me If You Can. While it’s a must-see for aviation buffs, I was instantly smitten by the Mad Men-meets 007 vibe. Sadly, there were no sightings of Don Draper or Roger Sterling tossing back martinis at the sunken lobby bar, but a girl can dream her dreams. Step back in time with me, my friends, and envision an age when travel was glamorous and everyone “dressed” for flight. The place oozes vintage charm: red shag carpeting, rotary phones, classic Life magazines (featuring a few eyebrow-raising ads and articles), a beauty salon with hair dryer chairs that look like they’d styled a few beauty queens back in the day, and a midcentury “living room” complete with board games that unlocked foggy memories from our childhoods.

Fashionistas will appreciate the tribute to high-flying style – think flight crew uniforms designed by the likes of Valentino, Oleg Cassini, and Ralph Lauren. Let’s just say, today’s airline polos and polyester slacks aren’t exactly runway-worthy.

Hidden in the hotel’s nooks and crannies is the “Pope’s Room” – yep, a space created especially for the 1965 visit to American by Pope Paul VI – complete with a golden dome that screams, “Vatican chic.” Naturally, we took both reverent and ridiculous photos there, which seemed only fitting. Upon exiting, we ran into some fellow Okies—because of course we did. What are the odds that we’d meet a couple from literally down the street from my brother in Tulsa? Apparently, travel karma is a small-town girl at heart.

To top off our evening of time-traveling tourism, we took a stroll across the old tarmac to meet “Connie,” the lovingly restored Lockheed Constellation aircraft that once ruled the skies in the late ’50s. Connie came complete with retro luggage (picture Samsonite and American Tourister) in the cargo hold and a cheerful (or possibly alarming) color scheme of red, brown, yellow, and orange. According to a vintage brochure, Connie’s interior was designed in “eye-soothing green, brown, and beige,” (!) which is marketing speak for “your grandparent’s living room.” But somehow, it worked for that moment in time. We’ve come a long way, baby. Well, that’s debatable at times but at least when it comes to our appreciation and use of the color wheel.

Speaking of airplanes…I must admit – I was low-key impressed with our flight from JFK to Heathrow. From the fancy VIP check-in treatment at JFK (thanks to my big bro’s AA status) to the speedy and cordial boarding process made possible by the big boy Boeing-777’s double aisles, it all felt surprisingly efficient. The real surprise, though…the food. It was actually good. Like, not “airplane good” but borderline “regular restaurant good.” No dry, stale pretzels. No Biscoff cookies passed off as dessert. Color me impressed. It also didn’t hurt that we had a gusty tailwind that sped up our voyage considerably.

Second leg: London Calling!

It was a whirlwind couple days in London and yes, yes – before you roll your eyes – I know that’s barely enough time to enjoy a spot of tea, let alone absorb a thousand years of empire, monarchy, and confusing slang. Attempting to “see it all” in that time was like speed dating the entire British Museum. But we gave it a go, by jove, and packed every minute with history, sightseeing, and the occasional moment of jet-lag-induced befuddlement (e.g., “Did that guy just call me a ‘cheeky monkey’? That’s a good thing, yes?”).

After a surprisingly solid night’s sleep in a hotel room that was suspiciously spacious, we wandered down to what we expected would be a less than desirable continental breakfast situation. But wait – plot twist! It was delightful. I mean genuinely delicious. The scrambled eggs and sausages were alarmingly tasty…as in, we were side eyeing the buffet like, “Hold up…is Gordon Ramsay back there?” The pastries, yoghurt, “detox juice” (more on that later), and fresh fruits were top-notch. Of course, the obligatory breakfast beans were there — though we opted out. Nothing personal, legumes. You just weren’t our vibe at 7 a.m.

Now, a quick word about the hotel’s plumbing: It had commitment issues. Particularly with hot water. Let me paint the picture — it was like trying to bathe under a mountain stream in the Scottish Highlands…in January. I performed the world’s fastest shower (record pending), emerging clean(ish), awake (terrifyingly so), and with a newfound appreciation for central heating. Bloody hell!

Our first full day was basically a Chamber of Commerce postcard: bright sapphire skies, mild temps, and zero clouds. We gallivanted around town with our charming private guide, Stephen — a true gem who somehow managed to cram hundreds of years of British history into a single morning without losing his voice or his mind. We hit Charing Cross, Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, the Princess Diana Memorial, the Royal Courts of Justice, St. Paul’s, London Bridge (did not fall down, thanks for asking), the Tower of London, the Shard, and even Chancery Lane — the most Dickensian Lane I’ve ever seen. By lunch, our legs were jelly and our minds overflowing with facts like, “Did you know they held a funeral for William Wallace 700 years after his execution?” No, Stephen, we did not. But we do now. When we commented on the gorgeous weather, Stephen warned us ominously: “You picked well, my pets. Tomorrow it’ll turn moody, it will.” And sure enough, the very next day, London leaned hard into its brand: grey skies, drizzle, and a temperature that could best be described as “QE II’s stern glare.” As we walked through the fog, the little girl in me could faintly hear Bert from Mary Poppins warn us of “winds in the east, mist coming in, like somethin’ is brewin’ and about to begin. Can’t put me finger on what lies in store, but I feel what’s to happen all happened before”.

Oh, and for those of you skeptical about London hospitality? Let me say this: every single person we met was lovely. Uber drivers were chatty, curious, and very concerned about our proximity to “Tornado Alley” where we live in “the colonies”. One even asked if we’ve ever seen a cow fly through the air, Twister-style. (Spoiler: someone in our group was actually in the movie “Twister.” With a speaking role. And, yes, we often refer to him as “The Talent.”)

Thanks to a bit of strategic advance planning (read: texting over cocktails), we rendezvoused with friends from Nashville and experienced high tea in all its ceremonious glory at the ever-so-fabulous Dorchester Hotel. Cue the inner etiquette police sirens that blared in my brain the moment we stepped inside. “Opulent” and “posh” are woefully insufficient words to capture the grandeur. Picture this: charming dog-walkers straight from central casting, aristocratic doormen decked out in tails and top hats, chandeliers positively weeping with crystals, and urns so enormous and floral-laden they could have their own ZIP code. Roses, lilies, hydrangeas – it was less “bouquet” and more “botanical opera.” The waitstaff, all strikingly stylish and clairvoyantly attentive, glided about as if choreographed by the Royal Ballet. We sipped a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot rosé (as one does) and each received our own porcelain teapot, steeping our chosen elixirs. On those glorious, tiered serving stands came offerings that would make Prue Leith weep: cucumber-mint sandwiches, roast chicken with sage, salmon with shallots and chevre, followed by tarts, mousses, petit fours, and scones with clotted cream that made me consider renouncing butter altogether. Side note…my brother, the butter-loving acolyte he is, would be horrified by this proclamation. Pro tip: You’ll need a reservation, your Sunday best, and at least two hours to luxuriate properly in this ritual of refined indulgence. High tea at The Dorchester isn’t a stuffy snack – it’s an event.

Rather than returning to the hotel for a late afternoon nap (or “kip” as the Brits charmingly call it), we strolled off our scones through the lush wonderland that is Hyde Park. The path eventually led us to Harrods – a gleaming temple of haute couture consumerism where we admired the décor, hunted souvenirs, and ceremoniously began our luxury retail pilgrimage at the altars of Louis Vuitton and Louboutin. Also: shoutout to my Apple Watch’s “Outdoor Walk” button, which I habitually clicked every time we weren’t sitting or in a vehicle. You’ll want to remember this tidbit when reading my next post about Paris. That’s when the real footwork commenced as we logged some impressive steps/miles.

Upon returning to our hotel, we headed to our rooms to drop off our treasures, pledging not to sit down (lest we succumb to the Sand Man). Rejuvenated by sheer willpower and maybe a little caffeine, we set off on foot again to explore the Bloomsbury/West End area. That’s where The Swan called to us like an English oasis, and we answered with pints and pub food. I knew I was in my kind of place when I spotted the metal bar signs proclaiming: “Meat needs (Colman’s) mustard” and “Soup of the day: gin and tonic”. Honey, I’m home.

The next day brought more shopping and a lunch so legendary it may require its own ballad: fish and chips at the Mayfair Chippy. The cod was golden and flaky, the chips were perfectly crisp, and the supporting cast of tartar sauce, lemon wedges, malt vinegar, mushy peas, and curry sauce deserved an ovation. We dined early and were seated at a fun table near the galley, ideal for people watching and hearing, with delight, as the captivating and lively accents (and phrases) filled the air. When we departed around 1:15, the place was packed, with hopeful diners being gently, but firmly, turned away. Moral of the story: book ahead or live with regret.

At this point I want to dispense what I hope to be a few helpful nuggets of travel wisdom, born from experience and laced with caution. Ladies, embrace the crossbody purse. Gents, relocate those wallets to the front pocket or utilize that mysterious little button on your backside. And everyone: get a wrist strap for your phone and use it faithfully. Pickpockets and scooter thieves are fast, bold, and disturbingly agile. Stay alert, especially near transit stops or crowded areas. We also witnessed an impassioned (and peaceful) protest from afar – with blue and yellow flags waved high signaling fervent support of Ukraine. Londoners, much like their Parisian counterparts, aren’t shy about making their voices heard on global issues. Hear hear!

Before takeoff in NYC, we’d wisely picked up a stash of Pounds and Euros, which came in handy and added a bit of international flair to the wallet. Fun fact: their currency is printed on polymer, a slick, bendy plastic that makes our paper bills feel a bit, well, bucolic. As a souvenir to myself, I tucked away a Euro adorned with the Roman Colosseum and a Pound featuring none other than Queen Elizabeth and Winston Churchill. As a matter of principle, we left King Charles where he belongs – in London.

Because of our, ahem, criminally short stay, I’ve made a pact with myself to return for a proper deep dive into all things jolly old London town. I’ve even entertained the notion of a solo trek across the UK, journal in hand, phone charger at the ready, and my trusty outlet converter packed neatly in my steamer trunk.  Closed captioning or not – I’m coming back!

If you’ve made it this far in my dissertation, thanks for your interest and patience. Next month’s post will include observations on our journey on the Eurostar, and our week in Paris and northwest France. C’est magnifique!

Here’s hoping Big Suitcase Girl continues to offer insight, suggestions, highlights, and, at times, a smattering of lowlights, mixed with a bunch of levity around the big world of travel, regardless of the size of suitcase you pack or country in which you land.

Until next time – cheerio, old chap!