Where was I?

What happened on the missing Wednesday, between the Tower and the shopping? No doubt a string of receipts and ticket stubs will tell a tale.

Yesterday (Monday, June 7): a late start due to dire laundry needs and the slow but solid exactness of the British front-loading washer (each load takes 67 minutes). Then on to Abbey Lane so that Don could re-enact the famous march across the cross-walk. Took several tries, because as he explained, "From left to right is canonical"--and there were lots of lorries to dodge. We looked down our noses at those careless tourists satisfied with a right-to-left cantor. Of course, as one thoughtful young American woman said, "If I lived here, I would shoot these people."

Then onto the Beatles store on Baker St., very near the Sherlock Holmes museum, where Don bought some "Sergeant Pepper" cufflinks. In walking the wrong direction down Baker St. for a couple of blocks, we saw a blue plaque for John Lennon, which according to a blue plaque guide I consulted later, marked the site of a short-lived Apple recording label store that John set up for a few months.

Then Don and I traveled to Westminster to visit the Abbey. But upon finding that it closed at 3:45 and cost 15 pounds, I balked and sent Don in. I spent the next 75 minutes trying and failing to find a toilet.

Then we were off to the Cheese to meet Disa, Tom, and Leo, who we called while they were at the top of St. Paul's. A quick dinner there (decent and cheap mac and cheese) with a truly fine extra stout, and then Don and I walked around the remains of the old Jewry, looking for, and finding, St. Lawrence Jewry, next to the Guildhall. A grand function was about to begin there, and important-looking men bearing impressive lacquered crosses on ribboned cords around their necks hurried toward the entrance.

At 7:30 we joined up with a Ripper Tour (through London Walks) delivered by the best educated of the Ripper guides, Donald Rumbelow. It was a lightly rainy, cold night, perfect for Ripper-walking. The East End is still creepy, even 122 years after the murders. The 10 Bells looked beguiling but the thought of walking the same floors as Annie Chapman, Long Liz, and the other victims was too much.

Of the new tube stations I saw that day, St. John's Wood was the most beautiful of the day with polished brass along the escalators and lots of dark wood (hmmmm--"St. John's Wood"-wood: a connection?); Baker Street has tiles with the Holmes profile repeated ad inifnitum; Westminster has stunning great vents and pipes around, so that one feels like an ant entering the world of the machines; and Bank was the most terrifying (with Liverpool a close second), as we walked and walked and walked, seemingly in a nonsensical pattern--upstairs, left, right, down stairs, down more stairs, now up stairs--as we breathed hot, de-oxygenated air seemingly left over from WWII. In Liverpool St. Station, we saw Londoners we hadn't seen before on our visit, the poor, the mean, the desperate. The station has a kind of green light that make all look ill, and the women in particular seemed just one remove in class and desperation from Jack's victims. We rushed to the comfort and security of Hampstead and the creperie (banana, chocolate, rum--chocolate and hazelnuts is better).

Have not been keeping up with the posting, so...

... a kaleidescope of vaguely dated impressions, working backwards. Yesterday (Sunday June 6), mad dash to see Dove Cottage in morning (well worth the effort), caught bus in Grasmere to train in Windermere, home (!) to London. Late walk on the Heath, stunning day, from Parliament Hill to Kenwood House. Called Tony and Tricia on the way and they met us at the Spaniard's Inn for dinner. Tony drove us home. Saturday(June 5), Wendy and Disa hiked up to Helm Crag in Grasmere and along Far Easedale (which may or may not refer to the actual ridge we walked along). 7 hours of bliss (and a terror time-out: "Disa, I really can't go on!"). Another 5 course meal at Oak Bank B&B.

Friday, June 4: train to Windermere, while the boys went to Liverpool.
Thursday, June 3: Began with 2 posh men's shirts at the Oxfam Shop--on sale--brilliant! St James Park in morning, Mrs. Dalloway's walk, Knightsbridge and Picadilly shopping arcades. Took a stroll through Brown's Hotel. Don bought dead sexy jacket.
Wednesday, June 2: Estorick Museum in Islington, charming outdoor cafe. Lackluster show (and their one Modgliani was missing), but a charming small museum, with a very good giftshop if one is interested in Futurism.
Tuesday, June 1: Took Leo to Tower of London. Rain, rain, rain. Pretty miserable and lots of tourists. Loads of lines. But a smashing lunch in the refectory: roasted fennel with fava beans and peas and a charming chicken pie. Fantastic Beefeater who told of 1500 bodies buried in floor of chapel. St Peter ad Vincula, including 2 queens, Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard. Asked for Americans in aud; when we raised our hands, he said, "All this could have been yours, if you'd just paid your taxes!" Huge roar from crowd.
Monday, May 31 (bank holiday): Funfair unfair to Don! Arts and Crafts sale at the Burgh House in morning. Really wonderful work in every booth. Bought a pin for Barbara, a book for Susan, and earrings for Disa. Fabulous party at Barbara's at 3pm. What a gathering and what a gorgeous apartment. Met Matt Wolf, the theatre critic for the International Herald Tribune. "London Assurance" that night; a thin play played to the hilt, candy floss woven into something almost substantial between the warp and weft action of Fiona Shaw and Simon Russell Beale. As Leo said, "it was funny because everyone was laughing at it."
Sunday, May 30: St. Martin's in the Fields for lunch--marvelous refectory despite "mousse" incident. National Gallery rush through and stunning weather at Trafalgar Square: everyone out celebrating Nelson, the fourth plinth, the utter gorgeousness of the day. Dinner at Busaba Eathai, madly busy Thai restaurant. Good food, but short on ingredients (lots of sauce), insanely loud. Much better was the bakery/coffeehouse across the street Princi. Chic, like a club, filled with pretty young Euro-trash listening to house music and drinking coffee and eating the best Italian pastries ever. Ricotta pie to die for with a cherry in each slice.
Saturday, May 29: Portobello Road. So much bad silver and naked commerce. Once we passed the lackluster early shops which all the amateurs mob, we found a stand with fantastic scarves, made of organic cotton in sumptuous colors. I was especially charmed by the severe Asian saleswoman who was much more concerned that I care properly for the scarf than that she make a profit. She said that she was giving me a discount "because it was raining," which made me fear for her livelihood, given that she's located in England. Wish I'd bought more of her beautiful scarves. Also found a Lush, where I was introduced to their fantastic Dream Cream, which not only cleared up my Brash Rash, but mitigated the scarring. As for their Jungle body gel, let me suggest that the bar (of soap) is a time-honored delivery system for a reason.

Ran into the Blonde Woman (again!) but pretended I didn't see her. But she literally passed within inches of me on Portobello Road. WHAT ARE THE ODDS?

On the way home, stopped in at Whittard's (finally open) and bought lots of tea and some very disciplinary Indian coffee, Monsoon Malabar. Unsubtle and serious, roasted to get you through 8 hours of work at the call center.

Saw "Twelfth Night" a the Tricycle Theater in Kilburn, where the audience was invited to join Toby Belch's party with pizza handed throughout the audience, shots of tequila onstage, balls thrown back and forth between audience and actors. Brilliant conceit that Malvolio's fantasy is to be a rock star. When the actor began playing air guitar, the moment was nirvana. Also did some double casting that worked quite well, especially the idea that the Orsino and Andrew Aguecheek are the same men (or at least the same sort of men).
Friday, May 28: Disa, Tom, and Leo returned from Stratford.

Second Day in London

After another late morning with Don uncharacteristically dawdling and Wendy chirping bright and early with the dawn. We ate at the Hampstead Tea Room which shockingly served tea in a bag (unlike the superior Polly's). Then we caught the magical 24 bus to the British Museum, where we were able to stave off museum fatigue for a hardy 6 1/2 hours before succumbing under the weight of the sarcophogi. The BM has some of the best signage that I've seen in a museum: helpful but not overly intrusive, like those displays where you're forced to read paragraph after paragraph in very tiny type. When the BM thinks you should read something, they make a nice big placard with essential info boiled down to a couple of choice paragraphs.

So much to speak about that would be incredibly tedious to describe in detail. But maybe the best were the comic-like panels representing the childhood of Jesus: being slapped by this schoolteacher, accidentally killing his classmates who were then miraculously revived by the Virgin Mary (so common an incident that there's a panel depicting parents hiding their child in an oven so he can't play with Jesus).

Dinner at Paradise where I ran into--of all people, the Blonde Woman--while waiting for takeaway. To be honest, the Indian food at East Hartford is better. Disa, Tom, and Leo came home late after an overnight trip to Stratford and the thrills of Warwick Castle. Tonight, walking and talking and treats from the French patisserie. Nighty-night!

First Full Day in London

After the usual artless flying experience via Delta, we managed all the tedious tasks of border crossing: displaying papers, offering plausible accounts of one's plans, changing money, praying that bags have arrived intact, and trying to figure out how to escape the arid, sanitary womb of the airport and move--hopefully rapidly--back to the messiness of unregulated life. And Paddington is currently a mess: construction, inaccuate signage, but thank god incredibly helpful employees. Daringly, we opted to take the bus from Paddington to Hampstead. And it was a dream! Often empty and when populated, filled with charming infant-tyrants wheeled around by solicitous nannies. Oh, 46, bus of miracles!

After dumping luggage and showering at Hampstead, we quickly returned to the city for an inaudible architectural talk and walk around Trafalgar Square. The two most salient things I learned were that: 1) Manhattan Island is made of granite which allows the skyscrapers to soar, while the West End is built on swamp, demanding a certain modesty in height lest modesty be forced upon them when they sink; 2) St. Martin's in the Fields has an excellent refectory (possibly a place to lunch with Peter). The walk ended with Bill Fontana's sound and video installation at Somerset House. He set up a series of "choreographic mix of sound elements" that played the sounds of the Thames (water, bells, ship engines) in individual brick rooms in the basement of Somerset House. Often videos of images associated with the river (buoys, water flows) were played in these rooms. The synchronic order of the installation was dictated by the places on the river where the sounds were recorded.

It was hypnotic, especially the images and sounds in the "Dead House." (Once I figure out Disa's computer, I will upload my eerie photos--[figured out: see above].) And most revelatory was the end of the tour, when we climbed stair after stair out of the dungeon and emerged, blinking like Lazarus, onto the expansive and welcoming plaza at the middle of Somerset House, with its waters that seem designed to absolve all sins confessed when roaming through the darkness of the lower depths.

Back in Hampstead, we ate at the Holly Bush, a much-admired gastropub. I now completely appreciate a card I saw yesterday, in which a man standing in front of such an establishment, says to his friends, "I need to save money. Let's eat at a restaurant." It was a bit pricy, but quite delicious. Traditional food beautifully interpreted, which seems to be the raison d'etre of this genre of restaurants. Beef, oyster and Guiness pie in an honest to goodness pastry crust, and a superb fish pie with mussels, haddock and scallops (?). The placement of the pub is superb, on the corner of a narrow street, just down the street from a friendly English tabby cat.

Today, Disa and family left for Stratford, so Don and I were on our own--always a mistake. First, Don slept in until 10:30 while I rose at 5 am, so we're now on completely different schedules. We ate breakfast (lunch) at a tea room (vegie breakfast, fruit cup with yoghurt), and then caught the 24 bus to Camden Town. Stables Market was the highlight--and given our slothfulness the only light--of the day. I tried on a black wool coat with mandarin sleeves and a cape-like shape. Stunning and a perfect fit but 120 pounds! Perhaps too much for my blood. I did manage to bargain--however clumsily--and get 2 10 pound rings for 16 pounds total. Don tried on a stunning cloth coat lined with fleece and decorated extravagantly with gold rings and studs and laces and zippers. It's a kind of male corset effect. I loved it but he balked at the price (around $300?). We ate two good lunches: I had a lamb tagine with couscous for 4 pounds, and Don had a combo of vegie Indian dishes. We watched a kind of horrible pigeon squabble for someone's leftovers: 15 birds clawing at each other on a table for some scraps. One even ate the napkin: "red in tooth and claw."

The market was mostly staffed with recent-y English immigrants: Asians and lots of Poles. Even the lovely young Gothic Lolita girl at Sei-sei, with her Manic Panic green-hied dreds spoke with a strong Polish accent. There was also a young Turkish woman who stashed her Turkish handbook on English grammar under the shelf when we approached.

Thanks to an ill-timed nap by me, we missed the "Twelfth Night" performance and instead went for a late dinner with the White Bear pub. Another gastro-experience with virtually no sides provided with the entrees, thus a bit pricy. But my ceviche with rocket salad was tasty and I had a big glass of wine which I pray I won't pay for later. Don has his first English Guiness experience and was astonished at the noticable difference between the two Guinesses drunk on opposite sides of the pond. Although we were enticed to the pub by an online review that touted the on-site black cat, we saw no kitty and were quite miffed. We got a second best experience on the way out when a spooked ginger cat crossed our paths and agreed to pose for photos, though no petting was allowed.

Then we walked and walked and walked, and despite my yearning for a size 6 body to wear all the fashions in the windows of Hampstead High Street, as soon as I saw the Creperie, I lined up. After consulting with the others in line about their favorite flavours, I listened carefully to the suggestion of a man who said that his wife's favorite was milk chocolate and hazelnuts and cream. It turned out to be a solid option.

All in all, though, London is decidedly a less friendly city than it was 30 years ago. It's true that my mother isn't here, the woman who could lift a limpid smile from Rasputin. Though I've hoped to mimic some of her charms, Londoners now seem disengaged from each other. There's little of the wit and fun that lightened commercial exchanges. The young people, especially, seem unattached, humorless, too self-involved or cell-involved to engage with others. The cell phones are ubiquitous, and people seem unembarrassed about speaking on them on busses, in the pubs, everywhere. It's a decidedly multicultural city, with apparently easy tolerance of a varieties of difference, but the absence of a lightly friendly vibe suggests that the tolerance is strategic rather than philosophical. Everyone's guardedly waiting to see how it all plays out.