I enjoy the anonymity of travel, which is why I don’t enjoy many B&Bs;, where they insist that everyone gather together at the breakfast table and get to know one another. I stayed at a B&B; in Washington State that was like this, and I will not go back even though it was a nice, clean place run by nice people who cooked nice food. Hotel breakfast chitchat is fine after a Catskills mixer from the 1960s–not fine when all you want is coffee and contemplative silence. I would rather stay at the Tower of London prisoners’ quarters than engage in contrived pleasantries with strangers at that hour. Looks quiet and peaceful there, right?

At the Jesmond Hotel in London, I found the peace and quiet I craved–a B&B; where no one asked me my name, just whether I wanted bacon or sausage or both with my eggs (I admit, sometimes I ordered both). Guests in the breakfast room spoke French and English while sitting quietly at their own individual tables. Everyone was friendly, and looking far more polished and hip than I could muster at 8 o’clock in the morning, and everyone respected each other’s personal space and desire for solitude. Perfect.

What was also perfect was Jesmond’s price, location, and cheery atmosphere. Maybe it was the Christmas decorations strewn about the breakfast room and staircase, for the Jesmond had a very warm and welcoming vibe. Located just two blocks from the Goodge Street tube station, and a five-minute walk from the British Museum, the Jesmond is the ideal crash pad for an urban vacation.

Gower Street was lined with townhome-style hotels so the Jesmond gets lost among the crowd there. I can’t remember why we picked the Jesmond other than the name sounded very English and the price was right. We paid about $187 USD/night for a family of three, and $15 USD for a week’s worth of in-room wi-fi. Our hotel included a robust breakfast every morning served by the same stout woman who always wore bright-colored aprons. Staying at a budget hotel freed up money to do fun stuff, like visit the London aquarium, ice skate at Somerset House, and ride the London Eye:

The Jesmond isn’t designed for lounging about during the day–rooms are small and simple, the beds are not fancy, but are comfortable. The whole idea is for you to sleep, eat, and then get out the door. I will note the shower pressure in our bathroom was the best I’ve experienced worldwide–no joke. Mike and I raved about it the whole week, for it simultaneously soothed and awakened. I can only describe it as part massage and part warm, wet blanket. That first hot shower after the red-eye flight from America–wow! The shower alone is worth staying at the Jesmond–ask for room 17.

This hotel is perfect for families vacationing on a budget–as we always are–and for those who just need a place to snooze, nosh, who have high standards for hot showers, and who want to connect online after a busy day of sightseeing. We definitely look forward to visiting London and the Jesmond again.

We were preparing to board our flight to Heathrow when news broke of a passenger being “subdued” on a Northwest flight to Detroit. The headline flickered across airport television screens. As the days passed, we watched the news unfold about Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab from a television in our London hotel, and prepared ourselves for an arduous return flight home.

Since no one was injured on that Northwest flight, I can be grateful to Abdulmutallab. He exploited US ineptitude, and, as a result, Mike, Anna, and I were repeatedly frisked and questioned along various checkpoints as we edged our way to our US-bound plane. I got the feeling, as we were sitting near the gate, that we were all checking each other out. “Does this person hate Americans?” “Is that guy hiding anything in his socks?” There was one woman, however, who was blithely buried in the Stephenie Meyer book New Moon, and could care less about international security. What was even better was that this woman looked to be in her 50s, so clearly lovelorn teenagers who turn into werewolves and vampires appeal to people who haven’t been teenagers in quite some time.

I truly hate flying. Yet, I love to travel, so I fly. Liesl Schillinger challenged Americans’ jitters about flying, arguing on New Year’s Day –the day we flew home–that their hunker-down mentality cost them the excitement of exploring new worlds. Perhaps a better understanding of other people’s worlds could even help reduce the anti-American sentiments that now form airline security measures.

Schillinger is right–we need to get over ourselves, which is why I suck it up and take a deep breath every time I step on to a plane. I used to take more than just a breath–I used to take Xanax, especially for the over-the-ocean flights. I’m comfortable with the notion of my plane slamming into a mountain or a field, but crashing into water unnerves me. I stopped taking Xanax after a flight from Havana to Cancun when the pilot “getting his cowboy on,” as Mike said, skimmed the tops of palm trees during the landing. The plane never felt out of control, but you did get the sense he could’ve descended earlier, forgot to, and had to zoom a little too low over the beaches to hit the runway at the right angle. I realized then that Xanax wasn’t going to take the edge off when the plane is flying like a crop duster. If my number is up, then a pill really isn’t going to help.

I now have my little boarding routine: I always touch the plane’s exterior and say a quickie prayer before the flight attendant greets me with her hyper-vigilant gaze. Fortunately, I’ve never been on a flight where anyone attempted to set anything on fire, threaten the flight crew and passengers, or even act crazy. I was on a flight from Birmingham to Dublin when the plane suddenly dropped and people aboard screamed. We had hit an air pocket over the Irish Sea. I couldn’t stop shaking until we were firmly on Irish soil.

But it’s the passengers, not the air pockets, that make air travel so dreadful. Perhaps if I could afford business class, it would be a different experience, but the fact is wedging yourself among 200 strangers who are cranky, thoughtless, opinionated, tired, hungry, and, possibly, anti-American, stinks. I suggested to Mike after our flight home from London that everyone should fly nude. That would take passenger attitude down a peg or two and make security checks more effecient. It might also motivate better diet and exercise habits. The flight crew could wear their uniforms, because airline uniforms command authority (think Captain Chesley B. Sullenberger). Plus, ever notice how relaxed nudists are? When you have nothing to hide, you’re a far more pleasant person.

Mike thought mandatory nudity was a tall order and might violate some, if not all, civil liberties, so he suggested passenger bathrobes –just enough to provide some privacy, while also giving the sense that you’re vulnerable to inspection and interrogation.

I like the bathrobe idea: you get a bathrobe when you go to the spa, so some might find receiving a bathrobe at airport check-ins relaxing; and you get a bathrobe when you get a mammogram, so it also signals scrutiny. It strikes the right balance.

Grab the District Line on the tube to Parsons Green, step out of the station, take a quick right, walk down the block and you’ll find the White Horse pub, known locally as “the Sloaney Pony” and for its density of posh tossers.

At the White Horse, you can enjoy traditional English fare with some flair, such as smoked haddock with parsley sauce and a fried quail egg or slow-cooked pork cheeks with black pudding. (For the record, every pub claims to serve “Great British Pub Food.”)

Then cap your lovely meal out with a cheese tray featuring the finest English cheeses, including one called the Stinking Bishop, apparently the cheese favored by Wallace of “Wallace and Gromit.”

The cheese comes from the farm of Charles Martell of Dymock in southwest England, who’s been making this cheese since 1972. And don’t blame the cows for gnawing on something that might have expired; inspiration for the name comes from what happens while the cheese ripens. The Martell family equated the smell to stinky socks, somehow religion got involved, and voila, a cheese with a catchy name is born. Actually, religion got involved because village monks used to make this cheese. We tried a wedge of Stinking Bishop and couldn’t smell anything, though that was after sucking down a pint.

What goes better with cheese than wine? We came across Tescos canned French table wine while perusing the grocery store on New Year’s Eve day. Tescos was pretty picked over that day, what with everyone rushing home to cook some fabulous New Year’s Eve meal, but there were plenty of four-packs of canned French table wine, which may go well with a slice of Stinking Bishop. Perhaps party hosts were in such a rush that they forgot to grab some canned vintage.

I can appreciate the desire for hearty, strange-smelling cheese and cheap alcohol. Winters in London are so dreary–who wouldn’t want to sit in a warm, cozy pub all day eating and drinking too much? The sun coyly shone our first day there, then returned for an encore performance for our last day, which was New Year’s Eve. On that first day, I noticed on the trains several ads for vitamin D deficiency and wondered whether Londoners simply enjoyed complaining about the overcast skies. Then I realized their complaints were totally just because for most of our vacation, London looked like this:

Given the incessant gray, it’s no surprise that umbrellas are part of the Oxford Street holiday decor.

Despite the dour climate, I’m always charmed by this city. People poo-poo London’s weather and food, but this city inspires a particular type of cocooning, one that is different from the isolating hibernation I felt growing up in the Snow Belt in Upstate New York. In London, you cocoon publicly, at a pub, or a cafe, where you and about two dozen people you don’t know curl up around a fireplace, read a newspaper while the rain falls, and have the guy behind the bar bring you hot tea or beer, depending on the type of warmth you seek that day. Nosh on some platters of odorous cheese and suddenly the day isn’t so dreary anymore. Truly, the perfect winter afternoon.

Meeting Big Ben…

The days before the mobile…

Trained to take this job very seriously…

A rainy winter day on the Thames…

Sweet treats from Covent Garden…

Touring the Tower…