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.
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.
It all sounds magical and dreamy. We await your further adventures. Your wife looks hot in the photos.
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you guys don't look like vagabonds in the slightest! you look like hip fashionable londoners gall darn you. so glad you are having a lovely time. enjoying the blog to no end!!
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