Week-END in BAL-lum

Official pronunciations for English place-names are chosen by a branch of the British Government to humiliate tourists. There’s no other explanation for it. Take, for example, the twins Gloucester (pr. “GLOSSter”) and Leicester (pr “LESSter”). And don’t get me started on Marylebone. Thankfully, the town of Balham where Lucinda lives is not pronounced “Smithfield” or “Cockfosters”, but the relatively benign “BAL-lum”, so we were spared too much embarrassment.

The name “Lucinda” conjures a fairly accurate picture of her house: neat and clean, freshly painted in happy colours, and filled with books, cheerful paintings and fresh flowers. Her garden reflects the same care and joyful spirit. For the record, a “house” in London is a different animal from a Vancouver house. Most are what we would call townhouses or half-duplexes: very few are actually freestanding structures. It’s also interesting to note that when you buy a house in the UK, you typically don’t own the land outright. You either take out or take over a fixed-term lease on the land, which will be owned by someone whose distant ancestor had been either a favourite of a titled personage, or was simply pushier than everyone else.

Our first weekend in London (pronounced “week-END” (see above)) turned out to be a holiday weekend, owing to what is called a Bank Holiday. Presumably, this is where bankers take the day off to congratulate themselves for mucking about with the global economy so decisvely. After a long and gentle morning, Christine and I took the tube into South Kensington to see the Victoria and Albert Museum, commonly referred to as the V&A. Roughly the equivalent of New York’s Met (as opposed to the New York Mets), the V&A’s massive Victorian exterior houses a huge collection, all magnificently displayed and described with signage that is clear, interesting and informative. The V&A may well be the perfect museum. Better still, London’s museums are generally free, sometimes augmenting their donation box receipts with small admission charges to special exhibitions, like the fantastic display of hats we pored over until hunger got the better of us and we stepped out into Brompton Road for a bite.

Patesserie Valerie, a chain of French café/bakeries with windows to die for, sold us a ham & cheese croissant, a jelly donut and our requisite cup of hot water (which stymied our server for a bit), and we nibbled our lunch on the V&A’s front steps before heading back in to spend some time looking at the architecture displays. The enticing glass exhibits were already closed for the day and the rest of the museum was starting to shut down, so we stopped in a the very compact and crowded Sainsbury’s on nearby Bromptom Road to pick up some groceries, and headed back out to Balham to make dinner for Lucinda.

Staying in people’s homes is a great way to get to know a place. You fall into the rhythm of life, learn how to perform day-to-day tasks with unfamiliar twists, and generally settle in. Christine and Lucinda did some gardening on the holiday Monday morning, then the two of us went for a long walk in the nearby common, a large park busy with joggers and people walking their dogs. The rest of the lazy day was spent exploring some trip planning options, eating soup, and doing laundry. Not the most action-packed slice of global adventure the world has ever seen, but it was very nice to be able recharge our batteries for the week ahead.

Days 3&4

Maybe it was the jetlag, the quietness of Alex’s neighbourhood (compared to Granville Street, at least) or maybe we had just kicked into vacation mode, but we slept until almost noon on Friday, and woke up in complete disbelief at the time. We scrambled to get out the door and onto the tube, as we were hoping to get to Hyde Park by 1pm to catch a tour we had read about the day before – the history of the Great Exhibition and the Crystal Palace. The website didn’t specify a meeting place, but it did give us the email address of someone named Nick who apparently knew all the particulars. This wasn’t terribly helpful, as we didn’t have internet access, but we thought we’d just head to Hyde Park’s main central headquarters building office thingie anyway and see if we couldn’t spot a cluster of people nodding their heads at someone who might be named Nick. Well, Hyde Park is absolutely massive: we wouldn’t have been able to spot a tour in progress if they riding Harleys naked. So we just plopped ourselves down on the grass for some sunshine and people-watching. Dogs, Frisbees, rollerblades – this could be Stanley Park, if not for the absence of massive cedars and Canucks logowear.

Feeling the need to get some work done on some material to send out to dance studios, we cranked up our steam-powered laptop and huddled under my jacket which we draped over the laptop as a light-shield. Incidentally, we seem to get stared at a lot here in London. I had hoped that we’d fit in a bit better with the famed English eccentricity, but no such luck.

The fantastic Albert Memorial, a Victorian folly with a profile Tim Burton would love, lured us out of our jacket-cave-office. Its elaborate ironwork was created by a James Skidmore, a brilliant craftsman who was never able to achieve great wealth, despite his fame at the time. Apparently he was a perfectionist, and sometimes abandoned works he had put a lot of time and money into because some small detail bothered him. Good to remember.

We wanted to have a look inside the Royal Albert Hall just across the street, but a large women’s conference was taking place, according to a volunteer doorman who was channeling Hugh Grant. I was going to as him whether not-so-large women got their own conference (perhaps in a smaller venue?), but I didn’t want to offend the multitudes within earshot.

We loaded up with veggies and nibblies at the Whole Foods Market in Kensington High Street, then stopped in at a computer shop to find out where we could find some free internet access. The McDonald’s down the street had it, but no working outlets. Then we came across the fabulous Hotel Chocolat, a little café and chocolate shop with the second-best hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted (Christine’s is amazing), free wireless, and a great table with a power outlet. Heaven! We got a good amount of work done, chatted with the server about southeast Asia, then closed the joint (as we have a habit of doing) and packed up to make our way back to Alex’s place in Tower Hill.

When you emerge from the Tower Hill tube station, the iconic Tower of London is right there, staring you in the face. In fact, some ancient Roman walls that formed part of the original ramparts extend right to the sidewalk we took to Alex’s flat. It’s disturbingly easy to become a bit blind to these amazing sights when rushing from place to place with everyone else pouring out of the Underground station. We’ve been trying to remind ourselves to stop and take a moment to really take in the architectural wonders around us.

We packed up our things and headed down to Balham, where the Jenny and Martin’s truly delightful friend Lucinda was to host us for the next few nights. Our challenge was to get there (with what was starting to feel like a ridiculous amount of luggage) and get settled before her dinner party started. We managed it, despite stopping in at Thresher’s Wine Shop on the corner to pick up a bottle of rose, but we probably looked like nervous refugees by the time we got to Lucinda’s door.

The Dinner Party

Lucinda’s fridge was already packed with rose when dinner guests Lottie, Rob and Alexandra (and the latter’s two boys Ben and Ned) arrived, but was mysteriously empty by the end of the evening. If you’ve ever seen Notting Hill, you’ll have a sense of what a London dinner party can be like: colourful characters, much wine, fabulous food, spirited repartee, and late hours. Lottie exploded into the room like a character from Absolutely Fabulous, slaying us with brilliant witticisms that never let up. By the end of the evening, Christine and I were being referred to as “tundra faeries” and who can remember what else. The two young boys fell asleep watching DVD’s in the next room long before the party ended, and were carried home by their parents sometime around two in the morning. Then, when we should’ve been either cleaning up or sleeping it off, Christine and I chatted with Lucinda until just after 3:30. Bliss.

Day Two

A fistful of time zones and a Chicago-to-London redeye blurred the line between our departure day and our first London adventures, so I can justifiably backtrack. After this, I’ll have no more excuses, and I’ll just be plain old late.

We were feeling the love from friends, students and family in the days leading up to our leaving Vancouver, so we were a bit wistful as the Dash 8’s wheels left the ground at YVR and we took our last glimpses of the North Shore mountains and the Tswassen ferry terminal for a good long while. Then the usual in-flight antics kicked in and we were fine. Christine wrapped her big yellow scarf around her head, partly to help her get some rest, and partly to block the fragrance of motel soap and flatulence wafting back from the seat in front of her (a combination upon whose origins we were disinclined to speculate).

Portland Oregon, where we landed ninety minutes later, was under a fascinating smorgasbord of clouds. Against a grey canvas, strange floating jellyfish-like clouds drifted around, under a sublayer of nimbo-cumulo-whatevers. After buying some veggies and a “Vietnamese sandwich” (not an interrogation technique after all) for the lunch we knew wouldn’t be provided on the flight to Chicago, we settled in to watch the planes land. We love sitting at the empty airport gates with the best views – it seems a little bit naughty, like choosing an envelope from a different slot when you buy a greeting card.

Back in the air again, and after giving me a spirited demonstration of ethnic-headgear-of-the-world with her inflatable neck pillow, Christine settled in to try to get some sleep, while I performed a series of experiments to determine whether the free headphones from United Airlines could be made to sound better than the nasty earbuds that came with my MP3 player (they couldn’t). In Chicago we had a quick change of planes then prepared ourselves for the real flight: the seven-plus hour overnight leg to London. Christine is always reminding her students to try to find their sit-bones. Anyone having difficulty doing so should take a transatlantic flight. You BECOME your sitbones.

Because Heathrow is on the Underground’s Piccadilly Line, we took the tube directly to Knightsbridge, despite having to stumble around with our suitcases like crazed sleep-deprived zombies. We circumnavigated the sidewalk around Harrod’s while waiting for it to open, marveling at the fantastic window displays (very Bergdorf-Goodman). As soon as the store opened, we headed straight for the (mandatory) bag check, where we discovered they wanted the equivalent of three months’ salary to watch our suitcases for an hour. Consequently, I stood outside where a lone (and somewhat annoyed) server kept conspicuously brushing past me to set the tables at the store’s outdoor café, while Christine made a euphoric solo foray into the spectacular Harrod’s Food Hall. She emerged about three days later with two bags of picnic supplies, which we added to our refugee-sized heap of belongings.

The little map book Christine had packed indicated that Hyde Park was a short distance away, so we made our way there, despite the cool weather and threatening clouds. Our as-the-crow-flies shortcut took us up a tiny street called Park Close, which was lined with amazing little shops, including a women’s hat store with an outlandish window display a sign forbade us from photographing. London is full of tiny short streets and walks that wind between buildings, are too narrow for vehicles, but have names and street signs nonetheless. On our last visit here, we turned down one that narrowed until it became just a hallway into the back entrance of a busy pub. It was like one of those dreams where your childhood home is magically linked with underground caves or a White Spot restaurant.

Hyde Park came into view, and we threw ourselves across a busy road to reach it, still uncertain as to which way to look to avoid oncoming traffic. We dropped our suitcases on the grass between an enclosed playground and a busy riding ring, where severe- looking trainers were overseeing some accomplished adult riders and their apparently spirited mounts practice show jumping. Spreading out the blue plaid blanket United Airlines unknowingly contributed to our kit, we propped ourselves against our suitcases and plunged into an unbelievably good picnic of smoked salmon and wigmore cheese on a velvety baguette, sausage rolls, a chicken-cucumber-mango salad, and a surprisingly transcendental health drink of blood orange, manuka honey and thyme (really). The sun came out briefly, it warmed up, and we were in heaven.

As it was already afternoon and we needed to make contact with Clare French’s brother Alex, whose couch we were slated to occupy for the next two nights, we gathered everything up and backtracked to a phone box we had passed on the way to the park. London pay phones have a habit of smelling like urine and consuming handfuls of coins without providing anything at all in return. However, there is always a number you can call for free to hear a pre-recorded voice mumble the address to which you can write if you want your money back. Fortunately, Christine hit upon a magic combination of coins and buttons that gave us about nine seconds on the phone with Alex, who had the sense to call the payphone back when it decided it had had enough of our conversation. We met up with him at Tower Hill station, lumbered to his nearby flat, and collapsed on his couch like two little kids in the backseat of the family car at the end of a long long long long trip.

We fell awake a couple of hours later, scoured the neighbourhood unsuccessfully for wireless internet access, then took Alex to dinner at a busy pizza restaurant and pub at the Katherine Docks, a swanky development alongside the Thames where the half-million-pound flats come with a free slip for your yacht. Alex then led us across Tower Bridge on onto the South Bank, which was clean, modern, and wonderfully glinty, even through our addled eyes. In a nutshell, we heart London.