If there are technology gods in Britain, they must be taking a very long break to enjoy their tea. As you can glean from the absence of any post, I was faced with certain challenges whilst on the other side of the Atlantic. Curiously, for a country with countless monuments that have endured for centuries, even thousands of years, Great Britain appears to still have some challenges with the simpler things, like, say, wireless technology, plumbing and salting food. Our urgency to access the internet in a small hotel in Wales was damn near alien to the fresh faced girl managing the front desk who assured us that while the service was not quite operational that they were "werking on it." So while I was forced to abandon writing for a week's time, I mentally filed some highlights to document on my return home.

We were truly gifted with hot and sunny weather during this stretch of this holiday. If you've never witnessed it, let me warn you--once the sun breaks through the clouds in Britain, the natives are prone to removing their clothes and basking supine on available patches of grass in order to bronze their generally pasty complexions. What I initially mistook for a large homeless population napping in St. James Park were soon revealed to be office workers on their lunch hour taking advantage of the favorable weather conditions. Like felines, they'd find a shaft of sunlight and insinuate themselves for maximum exposure.

After shedding the dregs of jet lag, we boarded a train at Euston station to visit with friends in Northern Wales. Wardy, a freelance editor and his flame haired Welsh wife, the Dick Doctor, are longtime friends whose company we genuinely value. Their well appointed manor on several lush green acres was a soothing respite from the boisterous streets of Manhattan. Several years have passed since our last visit and I was astounded by the lack of time's impact on our hosts and the impact of its passage on their three children, now forging into their teenage years. Wardy is unassuming and boyishly handsome in appearance, of definite opinion and bountiful humor, an engaging and intimate man. The Dick Doctor specializes in erectile dysfunction and once amused us by exclaiming most scientifically, "I've seen every manner of willy on the planet." The Dick Doctor is charming and lively and incredibly fascinating to listen to. She once explained to us in clinical detail the exact surgical procedure involved in executing a sex change; a discourse that was riveting. As a couple, they are perfectly balanced and their devotion to one another is evident. On our first evening, The Dick Doctor was in her element in her vast kitchen, knives furiously chopping as she pulled together the elements of a large Mediterranean repast which we enjoyed with copious amounts of Chilean wine till the wee hours. An auspicious start.

Over the days, we enjoyed a requisite visit to a Tudor manor, Speke Hall, outside of Liverpool and an evening out in Chester with The Dick Doctor's exuberant parents. Her mother, a spunky silver haired gamine kicked the evening off in true Welsh spirit, "Let's get going so we can all get pissed." (Pissed being the UK equivalent of inebriation). Needless to say, we complied. The final day of our visit in Wales, we joined Wardy for a day at the horse races. Wardy is a great student of horse racing, well versed in the owners, the lineage, the jockeys and deciphering form. While he has endeavored to educate Fang and me on how these subtle nuances contribute to selecting the winning horse, my selection resides on very different parameters: the horse's name and whether the horse will either wink at me or take a shit while parading the paddock. Despite the combination of these decisive factors, we had no winners that day, but we still enjoyed our first Welsh hotdog (pork and leek sausage with onions on bap) and the company of our truly cherished friend. We were soon on a crowded train back to London, trying to avoid a drunken Scotsman who appeared to be on the verge of vomiting for the duration of the journey.

For this holiday, Fang and I decided to live large so we booked our last few days in London at the famous Ritz Hotel, celebrating it's centennial year of operation. True to my expectation, the hotel was exquisite in every last detail, from the ornate Edwardian chandeliers that cast opulent light across the gilded thresholds to the phalanx of smartly attired staff in tail coats, white gloves and top hats. Upon check in to the hotel, we were greeted by an obsequious staffer named Christian whose sole task, it seemed, was to give us a thorough and detailed tour of every aspect of The Ritz and our hotel room, despite the fact that it was nearly 11 pm and we were bedraggled and fatigued. Regardless, we oohhhed and ahhhed at the subscribed moments, pleasing Christian enormously. Upon entry to our hotel room (a concoction of silk duchesse peach bedding, gilt furniture, ornate chandeliers and heavy brocade curtains) Christian proceeded to explain every nook, drawer and button to us. I fully expected him to demonstrate how to use the bidet ("It is fully recommended that you wipe front to back, thusly!"). After he finally left us, we climbed into the thick Ritz robes and the silky Ritz slippers and ordered hamburgers and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne, feeling very pampered indeed.

The next morning, we made the religious pilgrimage to Mecca, Harrod's Department Store. We went not for the fine Scottish cashmeres and Irish linen but for a strolling tour of the fabled Food Halls. From sculptured pates to great slabs of Scottish beef, to a buffet of caviar and delicately flowered petit fores, the assembled displays were breathtaking. I was so overwhelmed that I almost needed a cigarette when I left the building. Later, we visited my mother's family in Clapham for a big family dinner, clutching a boxed cake from Harrod's and a bottle of Australian Shiraz. A charming evening punctuated with political discourses, reminisces of younger days and the value of common garden gnomes.

One of the purposes for this journey was to distribute a portion of my mother's cremated remains in the hallowed soil of Greenwich Park. After a picturesque boat ride on the murky Thames, we disembarked at Greenwich Pier in the shadow of the moored Cutty Sark (the actual legendary Tea Clipper and not a bottle of whiskey, smart asses).We met the family there for a lunch of Welsh rarebit (the UK version of grilled cheese) before scouting the park for a fitting resting place for mom. I'd carefully smuggled her through airport customs, concealed in a Coty make up canister and secured with duct tape. After weaving around the picnicking masses, we came upon a bank of ancient chestnut trees, heavily clustered with ripening nuts. From these, we selected a fine specimen, 600 years old and a speculated former trysting spot for Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. Surrounded by the family, mom was gently sprinkled around the gnarled base and yawning crevices of this noble giant (to general disinterest from the many half naked English sunbathers around us). It seemed a quite fitting close for our visit.

As we departed London en route to what became a rather endless journey home, I had one last notable event. The zealous female security attendant at Heathrow Airport gave me a full body frisking, intrusive to the point that I felt she should have bought me dinner afterwards. A perfect ending.