Thursday night we were honored with an invitation to a drinks party for the management team of Lifehouse Spa. Now, how Casey and I qualify as part of the management team I have no idea, but Americans are in high demand in this part of the world, so after work we found ourselves rapidly changing from mud soaked jeans in tatters, high visibility jackets, hard hats and steel-toed boots into sweaters and scarves. We were driven by Ian (the incredibly friendly and vivacious General Manager) to his apartment on the water in Brightlingsea, a much more pleasant town than any we had seen in Essex so far. There we were swept into a chic brand-new bar called Tarcini, where we were gien endless plates of h'ors d'ouevres (including melon and prosciutto, tomato and mozzarella, olives, prawn sandwiches, and other delicacies and heaps of desserts) and treated to all sorts of drinks by the super-generous executive team into which we had been accepted. Feeling exceedingly professional, we chatted with the head chef, marketing director, spa manager, as well as a few strangers and bar tenders. A cool jazz band played exuberantly, including a multi-talented, multi-instrumental frontman, a bassist who may have been asleep, and a drummer who, while technically profficient, didn't seem interested in any of the ambience of jazz. They were, however, excellent, as was the atmosphere and, ultimately, the evening. It was a big improvement on our previous office party experience, and made us determined to someday be part of the executive team (as much as we love the gardeners).
Friday, we were swept along by the wonderful English rail network to Brighton, where we were greeted by Katy Cronk. Upon arrival we quickly launched out into the streets and grabbed a couple burgers at GBK, Gourmet Burger Kitchen, a really cool and delicious place. Then we wandered the streets of the town and stopped at a pub called the White Rabbit. Brighton, which is on the southern coast of England, is a city of bright lights and bright people, lots of color and loud, happy voices. It is the gay capital of England, and is super liberal and sort of reminiscent of a combination between San Francisco and Sebastapol. The streets were garlanded in christmas lights, and trendy shops and healthy vegetarian restaurants caught the eye as we strolled through the North Lanes. Katy was a welcome change after a long line of Essex acquaintances, just as Brighton was a welcome change after Essex. After a glass of wine we walked through town and up to Katy's dorm (she is studying architecture at the University of Brighton) and met a few of her friends before collapsing cozily in front of the classic Disney Robin Hood, a favorite of all of ours and a wonderful brief trip back to childhood. We fell asleep to the joyful whistling of "Little John and Robin Hood, walking through the forest..."

Saturday we had a quick breakfast and then darted into town to complete our first and most essential task: Watching Harry Potter #7 Part 1. It was predictably dark and magical and overall could not have been more satisfying. Faithful to the book and deliciously indulgent (hard not to be with two long movie to spread it over) it was utterly absorbing, even for Katy who has somehow managed never to read a single HP book or see a single HP movie. I gave her a crash course in Wizardology before the movie started, and Casey answered questions like "Who is that white-faced guy in the dark robes with the red eyes trying to kill Harry Potter?"

After that absorbing experience, we were thrown quickly into another. We went to the Prince Albert, a dark little pub that we squeezed ourselves into (we were joined by three of Katy's very stylish and outgoing friends) to watch some incredible live music. We were in a tiny room with tons of people, and as it was afternoon the attitude was chilled out as opposed to overwhelming. The first act was a solo guy who played mournful tunes that brought to mind Thom Yorke, Jon Swift, and the Decemberists (if you can believe those three have Anything in common). He sang loud and forcefully, and seemed to really believe what he was singing. He was also clearly classically trained on the guitar, and played very beautifully. The next act was a duo from LA (we came all the way to England to see a band from LA...ironic) who sang folksy tunes with hand percussion and simple guitar. Their incredible harmonising and outgoing engagement with the crowd reminded us strongly of Jela (wished Linnea was here for all this). After they played, Casey went and introduced himself, complimenting them and inviting them to come play in the Mystic in Petaluma, on condition that they wait a few months till we are home. 
The final act (named Gregory and the Hawk) was utterly entrancing. A petite, dark-heared, big-eyed woman climbed onto the stage, muttering apologies for herself, and immediately captivating the whole room. Something about her was wonderful, delicate, beautiful. She was adorable and yet impressive and no one could turn their eyes away from her, even before she had begun to sing. And once she began, in a lilting lullaby of lyrical perfection, the room went into utter silence. People forgot to sip their drinks, eat their food, or flirt with whoever was next to them. All anyone could see was this strange little angel strumming a harp (literally, she played the harp, beautifully) and singing wonderful songs, with the occaisional interruption for another endearing joke or apology. We never wanted her set to end. But end it did, and we were thrust back out onto the streets, now dark. We were reeling, but joyful, and we walked excitedly back to Katy's dorm. 

That evening was a whirlwind of new people and excitements. All of Katy's friends were wonderful, fitting us just as well as the city of Brighton fit us. We hung around the dorm for a while, pre-lashing, and then went out on the lash, and rounded the night off by chundering everywhere. (If you don't understand this English slang then watch this iconic piece of english cinema http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eKFjWR7X5dU). The people were entertaining, the city was lively, and we had great fun. It was the closest we have yet come to being in college, and both of us are Seriously considering switching to Brighton University!

The next day started late (perhaps due to the activities of the night before...maybe) and consisted of a long idyllic walk along the beach and Brighton pier. We relaxed on the smooth stones of the seashore and watched waves and clouds roll by. Katy found a rock shaped like a salamander, Casey found a heart, and I found a dinosaur egg. We got hot chocolate and organic chocolate cake at a super-healthy cafe and sat outside with Tom and Kate, two of Katy's friends. We explored a really cool vintage clothing shop and gave the streets of Brighton a thorough exploration. Then we made a massive feast of pesto pasta, salad, bread and brie. This was our thanksgiving. Not remotely similar to the true American thanksgiving, but sitting cozily in the Brighton dorm eating our homemade feast and drinking mulled wine (incredible heated wine with cardamom and cinnamon and a million other spices, tons of sugar and oranges), it was easy to give thanks. We dragged ourselves to our feet and completed the 4 hour journey back to Thorpe, thankful for Brighton, Katy, new friends and memories, a warm meal and, eventually, a warm sleep.

A few more characters, back by popular demand:

Habib: Originally from Bangladesh, Habib is a rigid Muslim (his only experience with alcohol was a disastrous one several years ago and since then he has stayed true to the faith and away from the poison), who has been living in England for seven years, manages the Prince of India with grace and hospitality (I should add that the Prince of India is a restaurant, not a...oh nevermind). Habib is currently in a state of wild excitement since next month he moves to Michigan to be reunited with his wife to be, who is living there now. Their situation is unusual and exciting to him, as theirs is a Love Marraige, and not the more commoin Arranged Marraige. He talks with touching fondness about his bride to be, and with excitement about the marraige ceremony and his new life. He is extremely engaging and entertaining.

Anjay: The Polish Head of Maintanence at the spa, a loud and enthusiastic jokester who struggles with English but is wonderfully friendly and upbeat. He is in a bit of a bind because the spa have not seen fit to give him any staff, so he squeezes himself in with the gardening crew, who are not thrilled.

Jenna: The PA of MD Bernie who I mentioned before (for those of you who don't have a real job like us, PA means personal assistant and MD means managing director), Jenna is the ultimate hard-ass who is obeyed by everyone. Her dog is a massive Alsatian, who obeys her meekly. Her husband is a hero of the military in Afghanistan, who also obeys her meekly. She is fiery, intense, and utlimately very sweet, but not the ideal person to have ordering you to "Lift that cupboard and move it to my office (a mile away). NOW!"

Three Nameless Clacton Girls: Acosted us on the train and proceeded to ask whether we were married, how old we were, whether we knew Miley Cyrus personally, why we would ever come to Clacton, why we would ever want to travel the world, and a million other annoying and bizarre questions we had to answer in the short train ride. Although these 13-year-old nightmares seem absurd to us, no one here seems remotely surprised by our description.

Stuart: Another one of the garden blokes, Stuart is a quiet but humorous tower of strength and ingenuity, who can reverse the tractor uphill at 50 miles an hour, can lift or fix or build anything, and doesn't take any bullshit. Nor should he.

Celvin: The extremely good-natured member of the Garden crew who seems to see through each and every flaw in the vast scheme that is building this place. He asks the questions that no one wants to ask like: Where do they expect people to park now they have dug up the parking lot? and Why are there 35 cleaning ladies cleaning an empty hotel? He should really be on the management team, or at least be hired out for consultancy, but for now he keeps everyone laughing on the very skeptical garden team.

The Cleaning Ladies: Now I know I have been making everything sound light and easy here, but it is not. We have adverseries. Enemies. The 12 Cleaning Ladies. Now as I mentioned above, these cleaning ladies are surplus in the first place in an empty building, but they show up every morning right as we are going to work, and crowd into the kitchen for six cups of tea (there is no work to do, remember?). They force us (trying to throw together some meager breakfast) OUT of the kitchen, and then proceed to glare at us and quickly busy themselves re-cleaning every spotless thing we try to use: toilet, shower, kitchen, even door handle. They are constantly outsmarting us, with a combination of superiority, hostility, and wicked cleverness. Today they even took apart the little singing birthday card Casey had recieved from home. Oh yes, it is WAR. I should add a little conversation I had with one of them:
"So what do you do?"
"We work in the garden mostly."
"Oh....a gardener" [End of conversation, she supercilious and viciously derogatory when she says "gardener"]
In my head: You. Are. A. Cleaning. Lady.

Boris: But it's not all bad news, at least we have Boris, Jan's psychopathic and hilarious Jack Russell, who keeps everyone going in the garden. Jan introduces him as "the real head gardener."

I will add one more thing. And that is about the radios. Each member of the garden crew has one, and the management team has a few. These conversations, though they are meant to be official, are one of the ways everyone keeps the humor going and the work not going. Here are a few conversations.

Louise: Why has the water stopped running in the shed?
Celvin [As rain pours down from the heavens]: Drought?

Jan [After a shipment of beer is delivered to the restaurant]: Stuart, has that beer been delivered?
Stuart: Whaaad dijoo sayy?

Bernie, MD [After a load of furniture has come in]: Gardening crew, come in.
Gardening crew: silence.

Bernie, MD: Jan, where have those two American boys gone? I need help moving furniture.
Jan: I don't know who you are talking about. I haven't got anyone I can spare. [Thank you Jan]

Anjay: YANOUSH! [Very loudly yelling into radio the Polish version of Jan's name]
Jan: [Long pause] Hi again Anjay.

And now, into our penultimate week at the Spa. The garden work is still demanding and satisfying, our vast unoccupied hotel still luxurious, and our day-to-day still fulfilling. The weather, though, is vastly altered. No more rain for the last two days (it is Tuesday) but it is cold. Each morning, we wrap up in every item of clothing we have brought with us (damn California for never teaching us about coldness) and step out of our warm luxury into the gardens. The ground is so thoroughly covered with frost it looks like snow, and each leaf that has fallen is delicately outlined in white crystals. As we cross the bridge over the waterfall (which is sluggish in this cold) to the Gardening Cabin, the mist rises over the lake, reminding me of the iconic line from Great Expectations, which I have just finished (thank you to Brandon Spars for teaching me about quote integration) : "It was now too late and too far to go back, and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen, and the world lay spread before me."
It is truly a beautiful sight, despite the cold, as the wisps rise up off the lake and again as they settle onto the fields as we finish work in the evenings, and indeed we are constantly surrounded by the feeling that, despite our employment and location, the world truly is spread before us. It is a good feeling. And it is aided by the sunsets that we have on the cold, clear days. These sunsets put Mediterranean and Caribbean vistas to shame, exquisite layers of pinks and purples and oranges flowing over our heads and settling finally down into the trees over the Essex fields and the gardens. One night, I went running around with a camera, desperately trying to capture various moments and views in the tiny interval between when we finish work and when complete darkness settles. Running with light steps (obviously no longer in my steel-toed boots) up and down the stone staircases and past the ponds and rose bushes, I get an overwhelming sense of joy and excitement. Cheeks flushed and smile bright as they can only be when you come into somewhere very warm after being outside somewhere very cold. The same feeling we get when we return to the Gardening Cabin for a cup of tea after hauling cut down trees or re-planting shrubs or clearing out ponds or one of our various other jobs.
This week we have been moving the offices of the management team, no easy task as they are in overdrive mode and literally grab telephones and computer cables out of your hands before you can set them down. But everyone is good-natured, though they are all work-weary, and so the new offices are quickly filled with massive cupboards and desks that miraculously appear with no help from us. They are extremely grateful and eager to reward us (today we even got a mini mince pie for our efforts, which was an unparalleled delight).
So the week wears on, with all our accustomed trials and triumphs, and we soldier on through the icy cold, which brings rewards like sunsets, flushed cheeks, a cup of tea, and the mists rising solemnly every morning.

Saturday November 13th was Casey's birthday. We rose fairly early for breakfast in bed, which broke our standard diet to include bagels and tomatoes and bananas and biscuits and tea (and teaffee, Casey's new bizarre beverage, the name of which explains it all) and juice. Then we caught a train in to Colchester, the neighboring town (probably roughly the same size as Petaluma, though far less nice). We headed straight to the local Castle, which was a powerful piece of Norman construction, William the Conquerors biggest keep, as well as Britains Capital under the Romans, and a place ravaged by the famous warrior princess Boedicea (think Bianca Bisson but a tiny bit more vicious, if that is possible). The castle is a place swimming in history, with a cool historical museum inside (complete with a warhammer bedecked scaled model of the town in Roman times) and sprawling public gardens outside. In the gardens we had a picnic lunch (pork pies!) and watched the local teenagers and the local squirrels play nearby (we liked the squirrels a lot more actually, and they seemed a lot happier). After our picnic we went to the local movie theater and saw Due Date, which was absolutely HILARIOUS ("What are you, a girl or something?") and was a fun treat since we haven't watched a movie in ages and both love to do so. Then we rode back to Thorpe, where we went out to the local Indian restaurant for an incredible (my mouth still waters at the though, days later) meal of chicken and lamb tikka, mushroom rice and, of course, popadoms. After the meal the owner found out it was Casey's birthday and ordered us over to the bar for some free drinks and a talk about his upcoming move to America. We talked to Habib for hours. He is a fantastic guy, and we will be spending more time over the next few days at the Prince of India, in his company. We walked back to our home (a massive resort, it is still hard to believe we live there) down the long oak-lined avenue, leaping over puddles in the pitch darkness as hurricane force winds tore past. We went up to our room for a final treat of chocolate cake and ice cream, and then sleep even richer than the cake which preceded it. Despite fairly low expectations (Thorpe is not exactly the dream place for your birthday) the day was utterly enjoyable and utterly memorable.
Sunday we woke late, and went outside to find the whole site and gardens utterly deserted, as they had never been since we arrived. So we wandered around the gardens, for the first time just for enjoyment and not for work, and it was a beautiful (though grey) morning, with birds singing and the garden looking excellent. The whole place is expertly designed and laid out, and the paths meander through its avenues, some wild, others organized, but all delightful. It was an excellent way to start the morning. The day that followed was a leisurely one, as Sundays really should be, that consisted mostly of getting caught up on correspondence, travel planning, and blogging, as well as an utterly useless trip into Clacton and several cups of tea.

Needless to say, returning to little Thorpe-le-Soken was a shock, but showing it to Whitney was enjoyable. And as we arrived, the weather descended mercilessly down upon poor Essex. Amazingly, although already November, we had thus far been spared wet weather, and had enjoyed a few brief showers mixed with cloudy and more than our fair share of sunshine. In fact, the weather was so good that working in the gardens was easily the best job on the whole Spa site, as we got to enjoy for nine hours a day that endless angles among the trees and shrubs and flowers and ponds. Not so, starting Monday morning. The only thing worse than the pouring rain was the mud it created and constantly enlarged, and the only thing worse than that was the biting wind that would nip inside our inadequate layers right at the wetest and rainiest moments. But still we worked our long hours, in good company and slightly-less-good-than-usual cheer. (I was reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato-Peel Pie Society, a joyful clever book recommended by Pooty Mahood, which I also recommend, and that helped to lift my spirits a bit). But for the most part we were wet, sopping wet and the cups of tea that we would enjoy in the gardeners caravan became utterly precious. But, after a few days, we were greeted by sunshine, the value of which had increased ten-fold by its pointed absence.
Whitney left after a few days (apparently there wasn't enough going on in Thorpe...Ridiculous!) and changed residencies. We had been living in a B&B owned by a harmlessly mad little old woman who treated us with excessive (almost cloying) kindness and care, but on Monday we moved up to the Spa itself.
But first, our departure. We left with a bang. Our hostess had been increasingly kind and generous every single day for two weeks, had never denied us anything, and had gone far outside her duties as a B&B owner. She even took our wet clothes after work and put them in the drier when it was raining. So Monday evening, returning wet and finding her asleep, we stuck them again in the drier and went upstairs. What followed when she found the clothes in her drier without her permission was a rant of such cataclysmic proportions that plaster rained down from the roof. The rant included lines such as "You are the most disrespectful children I have ever met!" "I hope you don't treat everyone you meet like this!" and "How Dare You" [Got that last one quite a few times]. Honestly, I have not embelished the story, we truly just stuck wet clothes in the drier as she herself had done a few days before. But she broke off from her rant to kiss us goodbye and then continued to steamroll as we faded away down the street and towards our new destination.

And what a place it was (and is)! The site, which included two hotel blocks and a massive spa as we

Our first night there (Whitney was still around) we explored the endless halls, and had massive secret agent battles running from room to room. Having 89 hotel rooms to choose from and no one to stop us from firing or swinging lightsabers at our enemies is the fulfillment of a lifelong childhood dream, when running down hotel halls is forbidden and reprimanded. Now we have a little paradise to ourselves, and after about 8:00 every night, it is totally empty.

So this week, despite the rain, became a wonderful one, as every evening we would return from work, wash and dry our clothes in the massive industrial machines, shower under powerful boiling water, make some dinner, and explore a new part of our castle (I cannot disclose further details of our explorations while we are still in the employ of Mr. Cronk, who might be reading). Evenings end with a cup of tea, falling asleep on the heated cushions in the spa while reading, and then crawling upstairs to collapse gratefully into bed.

But I haven't even gotten to the best part, which is the acoustics in the stairwell. The echo and amplification are wondrous, so we go in ever few minutes and play, everything from old favorites to new compositions, to gypsy-style jamming and crazy new inventions. None of it ever gets old, and we make new discoveries every day. We have gotten into a rhythm, in every facet of our lives. ll as a smaller treatment center, (also a pool, hot tub, sauna, juice bar, real bar, five star restaurant) is not yet completed, except for the small treatment center and one hotel block. As yet no one has slept in it, but there we were, courtesy of Mr. Cronk. We chose the biggest suite in Block A, in the center of the second floor, with sweeping views of the gravel garden (into which we had planted), the upper pond (which we had weeded around), and the sunken Victoria rose garden. The room is not yet furnished so we wrapped the (incredible!) mattresses in sheets and put our sleeping bags on top. The room is big and comfortable and luxurious, and as we will never be able to afford it when the place opens (it is literally one of the nicest rooms and we could not afford a broom cupboard here) we are relishing every moment. We spend much of our time in the small spa, which has (among other things) an incredible shower, heated floors, and comfy couches. We make meals in the little kitchen and drink tea and read sitting on the heated floor after a long day's work. It is beyond delightful.

With the long week done, a hundred trenches dug and paths laid, we had earned a break. So with Friday turning into a very wet and rainy day, we departed after work for Oxford. There we would be reunited with ubiquitous Whitney Turley and the wonderful Katherine Skingsley (who is attending Oxford University's Keble College), Whitney's best friend, who has visited California. But before we could see them we had to make the journey, which is another long one. We saw two interesting things at Paddington Station in London (we realized that between Grand Central, Gare du Nord, and Paddington, we have seen some of the greatest Train stations in the world). One was a bit upsetting: they charge you to go to the bathroom!! What? That cannot be legal. i am fairly sure that urinating is a human right. Apparently not. Apparently it is just another commodity. Disgusting. The next was more exciting. A massive orchestra of wind and brass instruments called the Paddington Station Band, made up of very old professional musicians, who gather regularly to sight read and perform incredible music. We listened to Handel's Water Music and Fiddler on the Roof, and I met the conductor, and then we had to depart. Very, very cool group.

Oxford was a bizarre place to drop into. Over the course of the night, we walked all over the town and were introduced to hundreds of people, none of whose names we could hear over the surging bass of the club we were in. It was a serious college scene, unlike any we have ever seen (oh yeah, we have never been to college). But ultimately it was a great party and we had a great time, stayed up into the small hours and ended up crashing in Katherine's dorm, apparently the social grand central of the whole University. The next morning Whitney gave us a tour of the college, where she had been several days, and it was incredible. It is hard to unstate the beauty and power of a school so established, with such rich history, tradition, and stunning architecture. Walking around it felt like an incredible privilege, although the people there are utterly normal.

And then, before we had really begun to feel the ground under our feet, we were on the train again, grabbing a few minutes sleep before arriving in London.
OH LONDON! A brilliant city! A place I feel so inadequate even attempting to capture in words. People! Culture! Theater! History! Food! This is the best I can do in lieu of a real description. Exclamation points!!
This city, we realized as we wandered, is the city of everything. Now, although that may sound like a ludicrously vague description, it was, in fact, our overwhelming impression after seeing various Shock and Awe elements of this great city.

 Saturday, arriving on the train we went straight to Portobello Road, a famous street market north of Hyde Park. We wandered for several hours up the long winding street, never reaching it's end. To either side were rows of brilliant shops bursting at the seams with trinkets and treasures, and flowingn out onto the streets were stalls selling even more. Every few blocks would be a massive self-contained market, a dark cave into which we dove, only to be surrounded by more brilliant oddities. We were surrounded by throngs of people, in themselves fascinating and exciting, but there was simply too much to look at. We saw more strange and wonderful treasures in a few hours on that narrow London street than we had seen in any market across the world before. Any attempt to sum up what we saw seems futile, but the wonders included more vintage records than Casey had ever seen (that's saying something), dazzling clothes and furniture, venetian masks, a Scottish or Scotch shop, old-fashioned leather soccer balls, maps, beautiful art, ancient leather-bound copies of Dickens and Shakespeare, knives and coins and truly everything that you can imagine and many things you cannot. And the food section was a maelstrom of overpowering scents, paella, roast pig, pizza, foccaccia, chickens turning on the spit, cheeses and bread and fresh vegetables and all mouth-wateringly presented. And the street-performers we mgnificent and bizarre, ranging from two Scottish blokes reminiscent of the Proclaimers, and a very cool indie guy playing Somewhere over the Rainbow on the Ukelele.

But eventually, tragically, we had to tear ourselves away, hop back on the Underground, and zip over to Covent Gardens and the West End, where after a delicious baguette enjoyed sitting on a fountain in the center of a wild crossroads, we collapsed into the red-velvet seats of the Cambridge Theater to watch Chicago. We had seen it before, on the screen, but there is no comparison. It was hot. Red-hot, sexy, wild and overpowering. Lustful, bloody, and beautiful. The dancing was breathtaking, gorgeous choreography, stunning musical numbers,great acting and singing, tragedy and trauma and victory and hilarity and
All. That. Jaaaaaaaaazzzzzzz!

When we emerged London was dark but still buzzing. We had bite to eat at a funny little Bento Box place and then went to Foyles Bookstore, a place Whitney had discovered and which has forever altered the course of my life. The place was massive, a temple of literature and knowledge and art. Four stories, shelves overflowing with every book I ever knew existed and hundreds of thousands I cannot even conceptualize. There were whole wings of the bookstore dedicated to sub-sub-subjects like Late 20th Century Comedic Theater Critisism. My head was spinning and I could barely see straight. The site of so many people in such bliss surrounded by books was exhilarating. There were millions of places to read. So we spent hours there, Whitney launched off to the Coffee and Culinary sections, Casey to Architecture and Art and Tolkein, and me to Music and Theater and Shakespeare and Dickens. Finally, after endless wandering we regrouped in the children's section, where Whitney read out-loud Charlie and Lola, and then I read Dr. Seuss and a brilliant bok (courtesy of Kate Detrick) called Instructions. Exhausted but exalted, heads spinning, we merged again onto the street, secretly wishing we could spend the rest of our lives within that brilliant temple.
We wandered past St. Paul's Cathedral, the Tate Modern, Shakespeares Globe, and across the Millenium Bridge. We settled down in a warm pub on the Thames and had a beer, as the city glittered before us. By the time we decided to head home (home was a brilliant little hostel in Chelsea called the Boka Hotel), the underground had closed (I didn't even know that happened) and so we had to walk home. Seven miles, down the twisting and winding roads of London, past Buckingham Palace and St. James Park, Sloane Square and down Kings Road. Navigating a strange city where all the streets are curving and street names change every two blocks was not easy, but eventually we made it (with the help of some rejuvenating ice cream) and stumbled exhausted (REALLY EXHAUSTED) down Eardley Court Road, into the hostel and onto our beds. We lay down to momentarily take the weight off our feet before getting ready for bed, and woke up hours later. An Odyssey, and a brilliant way to see the city.

Our second day in London started bright and beautiful. I woke up rejuvenated and walked around the endlessly stately and elegant avenues and private parks of Chelsea (Aston Martin parked on every corner) before meeting up with Casey and Whitney. We walked over to Hyde Park, past the Albert Memorial and Royal Albert Hall and the Victoria and Albert Museum (God damn Victoria really did have a major crush on that guy didn't she?) and arrived at one of my favorite places the world over: The London Natural History Museum. The entrance into the ornate victorian building is shocking, a massive hall of stone and glass with a full skeleton of a Brachiosaurus dominating the space with it's archaic majesty. We then wandered endless halls of dinosaurs (including live Velociraptors and a T-Rex) and incredible skeletons, and stuffed birds and animals, full scale models of whales and dolphins and creepy crawlies, an incredible wildlife photography exhibit, and basically every wonder of the natural world, astoundingly showcased in a gorgeous old building. Best Museum Ever.

Afterwards we had lunch (wierdly at another Bento Box place, very suspicious) and wandered up one of London's main shopping drag. Continuing our Shock and Awe tour, we went into Harrods, the most vast and lavish excessively opulent Departmet Store Complex in the world. Harrods was a vast maze, a beehive of jaw-dropping clothing and perfume, furniture and electronics. The selections were vast and the prices were even greater. Luxury and wealth (or an aspiration at both) dripped from the people elegantly wandering and inelegantly grabbing from the overloaded shelves. Christmas music played seductively in the background, sneaking into subconscious minds to increase the need to purchase (Now! Presents! For everyone!). We wandered in exuberant wonder into the Toys sections, streaming down memory lane with nostalgic shelves of Playmobil, Legos, Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, and the Gruffalo. The old favorites and the new creations were equally delightful and we all would have given anything to be transported back in time to the days where we could point and cry and within a month the desired treasure would appear under the christmas tree. We left in a daze and dragged now exhausted feet down the street to Victoria Station as evening fell rapidly over London.

On the bus back to Thorpe, listening to Vampire Weekend, my sense of awe at the vastness and variety of the city only grew. I have been there a hundred times, but this time the incredible scale of it was thrust upon me, having seen the wilderness of Portobello Road, the temple of Foyles Bookstore, the catacombs of the Natural History Museum, and the decadent palace of Harrods, as well as our midnight romp through seven miles of Belgravia and Mayfair. Stunned, but satisfied. Everywhere we went we saw more quantity, more quality, and more beauty in the vast and flawless collections of everything from dinosaur skeletons to vintage records, clothes, books, food, and people.

Remember, remember, the 5th of November,
The Gunpowder treason and plot!
I can thin of no reason why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!

Today, Nov. 5th is Guy Fawkes Day, the celebration (including lots of bonfires and fireworks) which marks the failed attempt of Guy Fawkes to blow up the Houses of Parliament.

It is also exactly two months since we departed on the Greyhound that distant day in the fog of the past.

Unlike the last set, these people are not meant to paint a picture of Thorpe. Rather, they are just interesting and for the most part enjoyable people we have met on the work site.

Sherrif: Sherrif is easily one of our greatest friends so far. Having immigrated from the Gambia to England (where he found his "missus" and settled down here) he has incredible stories of an amazing homeland and odyssey, as well as a killer sense of humor and a great attitude. Despite that fact that most of his jokes are either about Marijuana or Tomato Soup, he is very amusing.

Russel: Just as amusing, not quite so likeable. Russel is the fitness guru at Lifehouse, and walks around constantly in army pants and boots (he was never in the army) and a Parachute Regiment sweatshirt (wasn't in that either). In stead of being a real fitness expert, he relies on a loud voice and overwhelmingly boisteous good spirits. He runs Boot Camp, the workout class for the spa management team. I investigated this apparently armly style workout regime and it turns out they just play games like tag and leap frog for 45 minutes twice a week. Anyway, Russ never misses an opportunity to yell something like "Shocker!" "Are you feeling the love??" or just "Yeah Guys!" He has also lectured on whether you can hear a tree fall in the forest, and it was, well, ridiculous.

Jan: Jan is the head gardener, a fascinating guy who can talk for hours about classical music, rock and roll, bread-making, beer-brewing, prison-guarding, and, oh yeah, gardening. He is a polymath with a great sense of humor and as well as being a good boss and leader, he is great to be around. Member of the Royal Horticultural Society and former prison guard and former hippie, he is writing a book on these gardens.
Louise: The former head gardener, who was demoted when it was realized that she had no experience in the field. She still works here, but has trouble relinquishing her tyrannical control over all gardeners, especially "the American boys." Suffice it to say she is tough to deal with, bossy, and condescending. Ultimately though, she is good-natured. We often forget that.

Bernie: The Managing Director of the whole project, she is a frenetic but forceful boss, who seems to know everything that is going on at all times and also tries very hard (perhaps too hard?) to keep everyone in wildly high spirits. Constantly feuding with Paul, so we try and stay out of her way. She not only atttends, but Loves Boot Camp, which is another reason to stay out of her way. She is also ex-military, our real reason. Apparently she was the youngest woman ever in the British army to see active service. Seriously. Impressive.
Baldie: A friend of Nigels (who I wrote about a few posts ago, a friend from the gardening team and a local guy) who took us out for a late-night drive around Thorpe, driving far too fast and making obscene jokes at every opportunity. Farting loudly and constantly. Talking even more loudly and constantly. Fairly obsessed with smoking (forget 'fairly'). Probably won't be looking him up again.

This week was another stretch of long, satisfying days in the garden. As long as the sunshine holds (and it did) working in the garden is the best job in the world. We dug 13 trenches one day, and spent a lot of time planting various trees, shrubs, hedges, and flowers around the gardens. While the whole estate is already in spectacular shape, there is more and more to be done as opening nears, vast tracts of land that need to be beatified. So we planted and transplanted and weeded and made everything immaculate for several days. I should add that there is simply nothing better than the planting part of our job. Feeling the cool earth wrap around your fingers as you extract the plant of choice, getting it just so in the ground, making sure the roots are comfortable and the level and location are perfect, re-filling the whole and pressing the earth firmly against the root ball. Knowing that you have planted something, whether a powerful half-grown birch tree or a tiny fern, that will grow spectacularly in the near future. We continue to get on extremely well with the garden crew. In addition to all this, we continue to work on fitting out the newly completed Block A of the hotel. Curtains, chairs, desks, and various other delivery and unpacking jobs are exciting when they involve wandering the evolving halls of a beautiful resort. We get on well with the construction workers, and work well both as parts of a big a team and working alone.
I should add a note about our diet. Thus far, hosted by various friends and a variety of brillant cooks in countries serious about their culinary arts, we have eaten like kings fairly regularly. Now however, we make our own food, budgeting by substaining primarily on pasta with tomato sauce and rice with curry sauce. It does the trick, works as fuel, but we can't help pining for our normal diets rich in fruit, veg, sugar, and gourmet delights of all sorts. But it is a small price to pay for this independence, and the thrilling experience of being up at 7 and in at 5 every day, working long hours in a real job. The work feels good, it is hard and demanding and constant, but also rewarding, fueling a big appetite for food and sleep. We are happy to work long hours and flow thoughtlessly along. We are not intellectually stimulated but, just for this brief moment in life, we don't mind.

At the end of a standard, exhausting Friday, we met Cronk at the train station, where we sprinted to make the 5:55 to London and barely leapt on board in time. It was only once the train was moving we realized we had no tickets. We waited for someone to ask us for them but no conductor appeared and so we disembarked in a bind (you can't get through the ticket machine exit without a ticket). So we headed toward the exit, knowing we would have to buy a ticket and probably be fined too. Now, in addition to all the machines, there is one big exit for wheel chairs and pass holders guarded by railway staff. We asked to buy our tickets but just then, there was a mix-up with someone who was shouting at a railway employee, the gate guards went running over followed by two policemen. The gateway to freedom was open! But how would our boss feel about us slipping through like this. I glanced at him and he was watching the gate-guards intently. "Go, go, go" he muttered, the perfect secret agent in his business suit and black brief-case, aiding two fellow members of the CIA to sneak behind enemy lines. The first adventure of the night was a success as we melted into the crowd and then regrouped, and after that we had a new bond with the boss.
The rest of the evening was an incredibly enjoyable whirlwind of great Indian food, Cobra Beer, running about the streets of London, and conversations about everything from fine art to the spa gardens. Cronk was not only lugubrious but hilarious, regaling us with stories of his childhood and his wild and illicit adventures (which I will not put down here because, well he is my boss and he might read it). He was able to relax for the first time we have seen him, so we got to actually communicate, which was a lot of fun. Then we returned to Cronk's flat in Farringdon and spent an extremely comfortable night.
The next morning was a series of train rides up to the Cronk Residence in Wiltshire. I am reading Dicken's Great Expectations and Casey is reading Tolkein's Unfinished Tales, so the long rides were a perfect time. Before arriving at Cronk's house, we swung by the Caen Locks, an incredible series of 24 locks climbing up a hill, a masterpiece of engineering that has recently been re-done. It was a truly impressive examble of old-fashioned, but still very effective mechanics, and was mind-blowing in it's scale. Then we surged on to Millie's House (the name of the Cronk's house, all the houses in small English towns have names like Manor Hall or Abbey Corner or White House, very funny), where we were greeted by Harriet Cronk, and Lotty (awesome English abbreviation of Charlotte) their daughter. We had an incredible lunch of sausage and apple stew and mash, and spent the entire day luxuriously lounging around the warm kitchen table as everyone talked and drank tea and read and did crosswords and sudokus. We also played music with Harry, who is an extremely accomplished classical pianist and choral singer. It was a perfect, mellow day, that ended with another incredible meal of roast chicken. The evening ended very late with everyone dancing around the kitchen table to great old tunes which Casey, of course, DJed. We went to sleep in perfect comfort and bliss. In the long journey's and trials ahead, we will probably try desperately to remember the feeling of that night.
The next day was much the same, although it included an expedition to Castle Coombe, a breathtaking quintissentially English medieval town. The trees glowing in their brilliant autumn colors, and the houses and streets were picturesque. We went because one of my favorite plays (Warhorse) was just filmed here. We walked across the ancient stone bridge, past the imposing town center, and through the church. Everything from the doors to the stonework, had ancient and delicate artistry. Smoke from the kitchen fire of one house drifted out across the valley. It was a truly beautiful place.
By that evening, as we took multiple trains and buses (all in all a 5 hour journey) home, we felt ourselves already missing our new refuge. It was a brutal journey back, and we arrived with massive backpacks that we had brought from the Cronk's and walked the long trek back through the dark (Thorpe is too small for streetlights) to the B&B where we our now staying. We are no longer at the Bell Pub where we stayed at the beginning, but are now at a little house with two very old pensioners who take very good care of us. It is cozy, but also full of surprises (as they are a bit difficult and unpredictable to deal with). It is very hard to find privacy of any sort, but ultimately, a comfortable place. So we walked the miles back in the dark, dodging shadows that leapt from the bushes (it was Halloween, after all) and collapsed gratefully into bed.

Thursday was a day when we realized that we really were learning a variety of lessons on this year, and not only the expected ones. Today's lesson was how to break into a caravan, and we passed with flying colors. The gardening team of which we are now a very established part has their tea and lunch breaks in a caravan in the garden compund. It is a cozy little room full of couches with only a kettle, TV, and microwave as amenities. it is not a whole lot, but it is a great place to retreat to for a moment of relaxation in the exhausting chaos that is the project right now. Anyway, Thursday morning arrived and everyone seemed to have forgotten their keys at home. So we found ourselves poking a wire through a hole in the window, to undo the latch, and then crawling through this tiny space to crash onto the couch and open the doors from the inside. Only a few days as employees and we already had the place pretty well figured out.
That night our position as official employees of a major business became even more exciting, as we were invited to our first ever Office Party. It was frighteningly like a scene out of Steve Carrel's "The Office." The party took place in the computer room at the financial office of the spa, so the festivities were interrupted by the fact that everytime the atmosphere got good, someone would go back to their computer to look something up (buzz kill) or worse, work! But there was still Mexican beer (the party was Very loosely Mexican themed, that is two paper cactuses on the wall and, well, the Mexican beer) and pizza. And we chatted with coworkers and had a pretty good time. It was hilarious watching the awkward conversation and even more awkward flirting of the various coworkers. Everyone was very mixed up about how social they were meant to be and whether they should treat their boss as their boss. This is all at 6PM right after work. Around 8:00 people started to leave and by 8:30 there were only five or six left, plus us. And then, shockingly, out came the tequila shots, and then we observed a real office party. Let's just say, the Managing Director did some things she probably isn't thrilled were captured on camera.
The next day was an exciting one because we installed the beds, mattresses, and chairs into half of the hotel rooms (the hotel part of the spa is divided into two parts, only one of which is currently finished, Block A). This involved about 20 gardener's, coworkers, and Spa Girls (an all inclusive term for masseuses and other health therapists who are forced to help out with heavy lifting work even though they couldn't possibly be less interested, or qualified) lifting massively heavy furniture up three flights of stairs and distributing them to various rooms. It was a massive, sweaty job, but a satisfying one, as we got to watch the rooms slowly transform. We then vacuumed the entirety of Block A which was full of mud and dust on the freshly lain carpet.
We were also treated to a walk-through (or rather a run-through) tour of the whole project by our boss, Paul Cronk. Cronk (affectionately known by Cronkie by his employees) is and old mate of my dad's and a very funny guy, who has been working on this spa project for about 10 years and, as it is in its final stages, is in Hyperactive mode 24/7. But he showed us around the whole spa, which is currently a serious construction sight. Plaster, concrete, wood, glass, electrical cables and dozens of constructions workers running, shouting and working (was it my imagination or did they work much harder when Cronk walked past?) furiously. The spa includes a grand entrance, an airy atrium, a pool and hot tub, a 5 star restaurant and bar, a juice bar, a library, and dozens of treatment rooms for everything from acupuncture to massage, pyschotherapy, pedicures, and The Oriental Treatment (a mysterious 3-hour long extravaganza, at the end of which you get to lounge and nap for an hour to recover. Wow.). This place is incredible, and is very much under construction. The question on everybody's mind is whether it can be completed by the opening date at the end of this month. Walking through a construction site it is easy to be doubtful, but the work is moving at an incredible pace, and it is possible.
We are now kitted out in brand new work boots (steel toed and very impressive), high-vis neon green Hutton Construction vests, and Hutton Construction hard-hats. Pictures, of course, to follow.