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.
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.
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