It was dark outside, but I had to see the city.

I’d passed out much longer than for  a nap. It was more like a deep jet-lag sleep. The rain had stopped and the weather was even cooler. So I pulled the covers up to my shoulders and turned on the TV.

Then it hit me: I only had two days in London, and I wasn’t about to spend them in bed. I jumped out of bed and searched my open (lol) case for a sweater. Yoga pants, t-shirt, sweater, winter wrap and flip-flops all in place, I stumbled downstairs to the lounge for a cup of tea.(BTW  I was doing pretty good with this tea thing and it was much easier than making coffee- I could get used to having it all set up for me.)

In less than twenty minutes, with my travel pass and map in hand, I headed for the tube station. In NYC, the subway runs all night and I assumed it did the same in London. To be on the safe side, I asked one of the employees.

He pulled a schedule from his pocket and shook his head. “Nope. It doesn’t run all night,” he said, looking at me over his glasses. “You said you’re going to Piccadilly Circus for maybe an hour?”

I nodded.

“No. You won’t catch the last train back.” It was almost eleven and the last train departed Piccadilly in a half hour. He then asked to see my ticket and told me I could use it on the night buses until four in the morning. The bus stop was directly across from the station and would return me back to the hotel easily.

No problem. It should be fun. I knew the tube was relatively safe (cameras ever ten feet, employees all over the place), and I love the hustle and bustle of a city. I was off to the Times Square of London, Piccadilly.

Riding the train, I studied the map and made a mental note of which direction the statue of Eros faced, so that I could use it as my landmark and guide.  When I emerged on street level, I was bombarded with the huge neon ads- truly a scaled down version of  Times Square, like my hotel room. It was an awesome site; cool night air in July, people from every walk of life all around  (but not crowded), the big red buses making their way around the circle, and the billboards of the theatres calling you down the block.

I sat at Eros’s feet and let all the stimulation soak in. I enjoy the hum of the city and this was no exception.

I must’ve overstayed my welcome because a young man approached me. “You smoke hash,” he asked.

“No thanks,” I said, tightening my wrap and getting up to leave.

He grinned and followed. “Where you from?”

“New York,” I said, hoping he’d back off.

Instead, he fell into step beside me and started asking me how things where back home. We strolled to the end of the street like old friends and when the conversation switched to how the economy was doing in the Sates, I said, “Obviously better and much busier than here. You’ve been wasting time speaking with me. Time is money.”

He laughed, and then bid me good night. I didn’t know that hash dealers could be so polite.

 I shrugged and moved on, walking into a tall, handsome man with arms full of roses. Once again, I had pleasant company as I walked, and Ahmed told me about how he’d ended up in London and what he hoped to accomplished. When we parted, he gave me a beautiful red rose- and before you let your mind go sly, I had told him I was meeting my husband for drinks- and wished me a good time in London.

Did you know that there are casinos in the middle of London? I was quiet annoyed that I was still wearing my yoga pants and flip-flops, or else I’d be trying my luck in the UK. Oh well, that just meant I’d have more money for souvenirs. And with our dollar to pound exchange being what it is, I couldn’t stand to lose a dime.

 Next, I sipped on a café latte and chatted with some ladies from Ohio about our impressions of England , and I  spoke to a few Cypriots at the next table, who told me where exactly I was because I refused to pull out the map in public.

Checking my watch, I saw that it was well after midnight. Ignoring the Cypriots well intentioned advice to catch a taxi back to Earl’s Court, I made a right towards where I thought the bus stop would be. I wanted to see more of the theatre district. So, I walked through Leicester Square, meandered back past the National Gallery, searching for my bus number on each bus stop’s sign. I found it and waited a little past Trafalgar Square.

The bus was scheduled to pass every twenty minutes, and at twenty past the hour it whizzed right past my stop. What was that all about? The driver didn’t even slow.

I waited a little longer and right before the next bus was scheduled to arrived, I asked a gentleman if I was at the correct stop. He said I was, and I told him what happened. He laughed. “You’re in London, now. Raise your hand and waive the driver down.”

“Got it,“ I said, and waived frantically when the next bus came into view at the top of the avenue.

I entered from the front of the vehicle in order to speak to the driver and ask him how I let him know when I need to get off. The driver was great. He informed me that I riding to the terminal and was supposed to exit at the next stop. BUT, he let me stay on until the bus was back in service, gave me a little tour and explained what we were driving by, and told me not to worry about pressing the little red button at my stop. He knew where I was going.

Wow! I’d say that is a hospitable city. Or maybe there was a sign on my head that said ‘tourist’, because everybody I met was really nice. I’d spent the night zigzagging through downtown London and taking in a few of the sites with no problem. I felt safe, secure that I could get where I was going, and I had no language barrier.

It was three in the morning when I stumbled back up the narrow hotel stairs,  into bed and finally went to sleep.

I needed the rest because I planned on riding the The Big Bus Company in the morningJ.

It was a short walk from the tube station to the hotel. I carried my overloaded bag up the narrow, front steps and was really looking forward to resting for a short while before exploring the city.

The hotel appeared quaint and nice, and the staff was very helpful. I had been warned prior to arrival not to expect the size of hotel rooms in the United States, but I thought I could handle it because I'd travelled in Europe before and was accustomed to smaller rooms…wrong. The American in me surfaced and I became a bit claustrophobic. This was the only negative part of the trip- the room was extremely tiny.

The clerk at the front desk clerk found my reservation and handed me a key to a room on the ground floor. I tossed it back at him and said, "Since there is no climate control unit in the room, I need to open the window. Please give me a room on an upper floor."

He told me I could absolutely open the window on the ground floor and suggested I take that specific room. I insisted on an upper floor, and he reluctantly changed out the key. Being that my bag was starting to weigh me down, I took the lift (clearly marked that it was for a maximum of only two people with luggage).  I stepped onto the platform, sucked in me breath, then pulled my duffle beside me.  When I arrived on the correct floor, I realized that I needed to heave the duffle up a few stairs to the hallway my room was in. You see, each floor was actually split in halves—six steps up on one side, six steps down on the other.

I unlocked my door and was pleased to see a tidy room that smelled nice and fresh. I entered and dragged in my bag. I was stuck. There was no room to get around the bed to the other side of the room (which I assumed existed).  Wrong, again!

I wiggled my way to the head of the bed to find an alcove with a mirror. It might have been two feet deep, and that extra ten square feet did nothing to quell my claustrophobic nature.  Leaving the bag standing near the door (for there was no way to place it on its side), I took the stairs back to the reception.

"I'm sorry. There is nothing wrong with the room, but I feel very restricted and can't breathe in there. Guess that's the American in me." I tried to be polite and not bratty, but I really couldn't sleep in a space that was half of my walk-in closet back home.  It had to at least be the same size as my closet.

"I told you," the clerk said, handing me the key to the room on the ground floor.

He was right. The room on the ground floor was at least twenty square feet larger. I could walk around the bed to the window without plastering my back to the wall. But, once I reached the window and pulled back the curtain, I immediately crossed the room off my list. I figured that if I could climb out the window and stroll down the block for a cup of coffee, others could climb in.

Back to the reception desk.

"Can't do," I said, shaking my head. "I'm not sure if I told you, but I'm an American, claustrophobic, and paranoid. I can't open a window that leads to ground and sleep like that." -Especially if there are no bars on it, I thought, but didn't say.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, but the gleam in his eye told me he was enjoying my floundering. The chuckle confirmed my suspicion. After a few minutes of shuffling the papers on his desk and playing with the keys in the slots ahead of him, he handed me a third key. "I'm sure you'll like this room. 5-0-2."

"Great. It's on the fifth floor." My heart gave a little leap. He was so thoughtful and hadn't even asked for more money. I was grateful, but he shouldn't have anyway; I was paying three times the money of a typical roadside hotel for one-sixth the space.

He smirked. "It's on the third floor. After you exit the lift, take the steps to your right and past the door."

"More steps?" I groaned.

"Do you need help with your suitcase?"

No way. I could do this. I was strong and healthy. I refused, went back to the original room and dragged the duffle bag out, and then I headed for 502—on blind faith—without even checking it out first.

Hm, not bad. Room 502 had a bigger bed (twin and a half?), a window people could climb in from, room to place my duffel on the desk, and an en-suite bathroom that met my needs. Bingo. I was home.

I skipped down the stairs and returned the original key, then took the step back up to my room and collapsed on the bed.

Time for a nap.

Need to get ready to see the city at night.  

Well, it has been too long for me to use jet lag as an excuse for not posting, and I really want to chat a little about my first impression of the great city of London.

I must admit, I was worried about experiencing this city on my own. Not because I can’t navigate the tube (I grew up in NY and rode the subway) or because of a language barrier, but simply because I was on my own for a two days. Hey, think about it…You’re travelling alone with no one to confirm with on making a right or left when you reach the corner. That means if you make the wrong turn, nobody is going to pull you back and turn you in the correct direction.  Kind of scary, eh?

However, I found London to be a very hospitable host and the perfect choice for single-person travel. The transportation infrastructure lent itself to a tourist being able to see all the ‘essentials’ with ease. Especially, an English speaking tourist. The locals were extremely friendly and very approachable. There was an abundance of history to enjoy and absolutely not enough time for me to see a tenth of the monuments housed in this wonderful city. Plus, it was unfortunate that the dollar was losing its gusto by the moment, so I had to make every penny count. That being the case, I took a radical (for me) approach to seeing the city for the first time: I arranged for a total ‘touristy’ tour on the second day on a double-decker bus.

Leaving the RNA conference, I took the train north in order to reach London from Chichester. In a little over an hour, I transferred at Victoria Station for the tube to Earl’s Court. It really was easy to find my way. Every thing was well marked and identified. Exiting the busy tube station, I must admit that I was disappointed it was still raining and cool. You see, I’m now a South Florida girl and only experience fifty degree type weather on vacation or on a rare January day. But I was snug in my wrap, so I took a quick right and pulled my wheeled duffle around the corner to my hotel.

Earl’s Court had an annual festival going on for a few more hours, and it quickly became apparent that it was an immigrant neighborhood, as much a melting pot as my childhood New York. Happy to have picked this location as my headquarters, I scoped out the local pubs, the supermarket (don’t ask me why, but I always detour into the local shopping places), and of course the cafes.

I’ll detail my hotel experience, my first night in Piccadilly Circus, and my tourist tour in a few separate posts this week. Please comment and let me know if I’m missing anything you want to hear about.

BTW I had no problem finding the a favorite pub to enjoy my 'Fish and Chips'.
Tourist tip: In a real pub, there is no table service (unless there is a restaurant section). You walk up to the bar and place your order. If it is a drink you desire, you carry it back to a table. If you want a meal, you place the order and pay at the bar, and when it is ready, they bring it to your table. Just don't want you to make the mistake of waiting twenty minutes for a waiter to take your order.

Once July hit, I searched the dark recesses of my Florida closet, and dug past my summer dresses and tanks tops, pulling out sweaters and wraps. Within a few hours, I boarded a plane for London, England and the Romance Novelists’ Association Annual Conference in Chichester.

This was my first conference in the United Kingdom, and I had no idea what to expect. However, within a very short amount of time, my fears were laid to rest by the welcoming romance writers in the UK, and I felt in my element and at ease.

On arrival, I was greeted by friendly staff at Chichester University. (It appears that campuses host many conferences in the UK and are very nicely equipped to handle events with large groups). The staff allowed me to check-in early and I was pleasantly surprised to find that I had a single room with an en-suite bath and a kitchen to be shared with three other flat mates. ‘Uni’ in England turned out to be much less rustic than I had envisioned.

I ventured out on the campus and met a smiling Jan Jones, the conference organizer extraordinaire, and her trustee assistant, Gill Sanderson. I had spoken to Jan on the phone, and by the minimal conversations we had had, I knew she was a lady who had it all together and under control. She really did an outstanding job with the conference. Thanks, Jan.

It was Thursday night and I wasn’t feeling the jetlag, so I joined other conference guests for dinner in Chichester at a restaurant named Café Rouge. I met many lovely people and chatted with them about careers and books. What impressed me was how dedicated they all were to the RNA. They arrived early to volunteer and help with last minute preparations for the weekend.

In short, I found the RNA to be a network of established authors sharing their love for romance while welcoming new writers into their folds. The New Writers Scheme was described to me as a mentoring program offered by the experienced authors to non-pubbed members. I strongly suggest looking at it if you are aspiring for that first contract. (Spaces are limited, so don’t delay.)

I learned quite a bit throughout the weekend, and I could write about it for hours. Instead, here are some bullets and a few pictures. Don’t they say a picture is worth a thousand words? Not only will the photos preserve my manicure, but they’ll make you smile.

·         First, the weather report was accurate. It went from the balmy low seventies to the fifties in no time. And the promised rain made a scheduled appearance so as to not disappoint its Floridian visitor. Good thing I packed my winter wrap.  Needless to say, the weather heated up as one hundred and fifty romance writers descended on the quaint city. However, that was due to the warm and welcoming company and not the actual temperature.

·         The English are efficient and punctual. Don’t be late if you’ve set a date. I kept trying to make it to the seminars on time, but no matter when I arrived, they seemed to have started.

·         Coffee cream is not the norm. They serve a skimmed milk version, and if you ask for cream, you get the real stuff.

·         Now, who would have thought I’d find the perfect South Florida summer drink in the South of England?  Amongst other things, the talented Sophie Weston introduced me to my new favorite drink, Pimm’s. It is served in a large pitcher with fresh fruit slices and is the UK’s answer to America's Mint Julep. Yum. Can’t wait to try it with our ninety-eight degree weather in Florida.

·         WHSmith is one of the largest booksellers in Great Britain. My new friend, Mary Zacaroli, took me there on Friday morning to show me the way Mills and Boon books are displayed (very similar to the way we have end caps in the US retailers, but with different category lines available). Leanne Bibby, aspiring to write historicals for Mills and Boon, Mary, and I spent the morning shopping for shoes, and with our mission accomplished, we returned to the campus and interviewed with M&B editors, Joanne Carr and Kimberly Young.

Personally, this ten minute chat with Joanne Carr was the purpose of my trip. I want to write for Mills and Boon, and I needed to learn what exactly they required from my story—directly from the source. Joanne was wonderful and very forthcoming with what she is looking for. Obviously, the next few weeks will be devoted to fine tuning Dante’s Deal into such a read, and then I will cross my fingers and light my candles, waiting for her to say that I accomplished my goal.

The conference seminars were absolutely…lovely! So many of my favorite authors presented workshops and it was difficult to pick which ones to attend.

Anna Jacobs, Kate Hardy, Kate Harrison, Kate Johnson, and Nicola Cornick started us off with “What Is Romantic Fiction, Anyway?” These authors, from a variety of romance genres, were candid and informative in sharing their outlooks with the group. What a nice beginning.

Jay Dixon shared her knowledge on a master of romance, Shakespeare. Think back to high school, review your required reading, and then decide how often we see these themes in modern novels. Truly an ageless mastermind!

Kim Young and Joanne Carr packed the chapel with their talk on Mills and Boon, “Don’t Let the Plot Get in the Way of the Story!” What more could this American girl ask for?

Kate Walker presentation, “Get Yourself Out There”, was a great crack of the whip to pull me back to my site and blog and spend a little more time on updating it. I promise to write more next week and to add a page on my naughty twin, Demi Alex, ASAP.

These are only a few of the workshops offered, but I must admit that the knowledge shared during the breaks, meals, and at the bar were priceless. I was lucky enough to meet and chat with Sara Craven, who was a doll and endured so many of my ‘RNA newbie’ questions. Melinda Hammond, aka Sarah Mallory, was the official 'first-timer greeter', and she did a great job getting us settled. There was a fantastic group of ladies who lent me their ears on more than one occasion, and I feel privileged to have spent time with so many talented authors. Rather than naming them individually, and misspelling a name or forgetting one, I’m posting a few photos.     

Now, my two trustee beta-readers (S & K) say I’m going a bit long on this post, so I’ll finish by saying thank you to the RNA for its wonderful hospitality. I enjoyed myself and learned so much from my sister writers across the Atlantic. I look forward to attending a future conference very soon.

Cheers!

Aleka

Join me next week as I share a little (I promise to keep it shorter) on my London experience.