The curveball thrown by my 9-year-old nephew Julian came barely an hour after we'd landed in London.

Between the flight, Heathrow airport's endless corridors and the Underground train ride into the city, it had been a long trip. By the time my bedraggled nephew stepped off the Piccadilly Line, he had sore feet, he was fatigued and maybe a tad woozy.

A packed escalator climbed out of the Underground station through a corridor of advertisements for West Ends shows. Somewhere between the poster for Mamma Mia! and one for Les Miserables, Julian covered his mouth. His eyelids fluttered; his stomach heaved a flood that gushed onto his shirt, his jacket, his pants.

I glanced around, helpless. My sister's list of care and feeding instructions for Julian was long and detailed. But she neglected to address a barfing scene surrounded by suits and ties.

The escalator episode wasn't the last unanticipated diversion to confront this non-parent in London. Luckily, most of my pre-planned strategies held up nicely. But I discovered it's easy to idealize taking a child on a dream trip. For the inexperienced, this kind of adventure -- especially undertaken solo -- requires organization, and an element of fortitude.

BEST LAID PLANS

Julian is my youngest nephew, and I'd long looked forward to the day when he'd be old enough to appreciate his first trip abroad. London was an easy choice: It's one of my favorite cities, And thanks to the History Channel, Julian had a vague awareness of it. Better yet, airfares were as low as I'd seen in years, and the British pound had surrendered to the Yankee dollar, reaching a 23-year low.

With tickets purchased, the flood of doubts emerged. Was seven days sufficient to conquer jetlag before Julian was boarded back on a plane home? Would his luggage from sunny San Diego contain the right outfits for a well-dressed city's dour weather? What if we became separated? Most urgently: How in the heck does a single parent keep a child entertained for a week straight, without a break? Could I expect any down time?

I plotted carefully. A flight that arrived in the afternoon would help surmount jetlag, I reasoned. I had Julian's teacher give him a school assignment -- a daily report on his trip. Kid-savvy travelers provided advice for attractions that might prove more engaging to a 9-year-old than my own fave, the British Museum.

But no one prepared me for that unfortunate deluge halfway up our first escalator. Mortified at the prospect of checking in to a hotel covered in regurgitated airplane yogurt, I sought out the Underground station attendant for help. Discerning slight panic, he took pity and showed us to the station's private bathroom, where Julian could change and rinse his face.

''I'm feeling better now,'' Julian chirped while I surveyed the wreckage of soiled clothes. The sickness was launched by a combustible fusion of excitement and exhaustion, we decided. Julian pulled on his remaining clean coat, a lime green ski jacket that became his de facto uniform for our chilly week. And I chalked up one item I hadn't thought to bring: a package of Woolite, or something to tackle a few unanticipated items of washing in our room (and thus dodge Europe's sky-high laundry prices).

We emerged from the Underground station into a crisp spring day -- perfect for the two activities we'd planned for our first, eye-drooping afternoon: a ride on the London Eye, the world's largest ''observation wheel,'' and a sightseeing tour aboard a double-decker bus. My strategy to keep Julian awake and moderately active that first afternoon paid off for the rest of the trip: He happily stayed up til 10 p.m. each night and never had a problem arising by eight for breakfast. (A dose of the natural hormone sleep aid Melatonin the first three nights also helped).

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