My daily commute to Croydon didn’t seem to be having a great deal of impact on my client. In fact, I probably could’ve stood naked on the water cooler and sang “Smoke on the Water” in Flemish without causing a stir. So, Christine and I decided that I should finish up whatever work absolutely had to be done there in the next few days, and she would see about finding us some plane tickets to Seoul, where our friend Brenda had lined up some work and some digs for us.
We had a nice final dinner with Lucinda, signed her bulging guest book, and said farewell to Balham, without having once taken in the rather upscale-looking pizza place on the corner. Christine had lined up our next couch-surfing destination: the London apartment of her dance buddy Amari’s parents, in Marble Arch. Now, my only association with the name “Marble Arch” was the seedy hotel on Richards Street where I used to play drums in a blues/R&B cover band way back when. It was one of the more lucrative gigs for bands in our, um, “echelon”, mostly because the place was absolutely packed on “welfare Wednesdays”. People would cash their cheques at the bar, and the more frugal drinkers would have enough left over at the end of the night to take a cab home. The rest are probably still there.
Anyway, the reaction we got when we told people we’d be staying in Marble Arch the next three nights suggested that we might be seeing a better sort of clientele than the Richards street drunks of yore. What an understatement. The suite we were given keys to was massive, beautifully and artistically decorated, and had sweeping views in all directions. We knew we were in for something unexpected when the elevator opened into the suite itself, but we still wandered around slack-jawed for over an hour. We had been given the master bedroom, which was larger than many London flats. The ensuite bathroom looked like a particularly upscale spa. Incredible.
We finally got to meet Amari’s kind and wonderful father the following evening, as he made a brief stop between work and sleep. He made us feel extremely welcome and comfortable – almost as if he was the houseguest. We slept like babies there, partly because it was so incredibly quiet in amongst all that plushness, but mostly because the enormous bed made you feel like you were in your very first grown-up bed, where the corners took some time to get to.
The next day, Christine took a Contemporary Ballet class at Pineapple Studios then roamed around the Natural History Museum for the afternoon. We had cheekily agreed to meet up at Trafalgar Square, and sure enough, we found one another in short order and strolled off for a pub dinner near Leicester Square. Our after-dinner walk was filled with endless romantic-movie London moments. Hearing some sprightly chamber music, we walked up to the closed doors of St-Martins-in-the-Fields just as the music ended and two ushers pulled the huge doors open right in front of us, engulfing us in warm light and a wave of energetic applause. We stood in the doorway, looking straight up the aisle, and watched the smiling musicians take their bows. It felt like it had all been staged just for us.
Walking towards the Thames, we went through part of the City of Westminster and passed by several beautiful old pubs, one of which was gently emitting “Tears of a Clown”. We rounded a corner and were suddenly confronted by a looming Big Ben, looking utterly magnificent with all its lights on. It was five to ten, so we waited for the famous chime. There was a dramatic pause after the expected two-part melody, then the deep thunder of the huge bell (“Big Ben” itself) just sort of emerged into the night, the effect not becoming any less awesome over the course of its ten slow BONGs.
The banks of the Thames were alive with lights and people, including a group of non-English speaking women who seemed to be involved in the late stages of a meandering stagette. We kept bumping into them, and helped one lost pair find the rest of their pod before we crossed the river again and climbed onto the busy tube to make our way back to our temporary palace and our grown-up-grown-up bed.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Tuesday, May 5 – a London Work / Life Experiment
We got up uncharacteristically early ( although not as early as Lucinda, who likes to get into central London before the Tube crowds get thick and stinky), and prepared for what might be a normal weekday (for us, at least). Christine geared up to take a Contemporary class at “The Place”, a dance studio near King's Cross, and I threw a shoulder bag of electronics gear together for a day at my client's factory in Croydon, the opposite direction. To complete the commuter experience, I threw on my headphones and painted the walk-tube-walk-tram-walk with a completely incongruous sonic landscape of live funk a la Maceo Parker. It was hard not to smile the whole way.
I got off the (remarkably clean, smooth and enjoyable) tram at a very small station on the northern outskirts of Croydon, not far from their Ikea, which features a huge old brick smokestack decorated up top in their trademark blue-and-yellow. (Why is it that Ikea stores are always located in places with virtually no sidewalks? I thought Swedes walked everywhere.) Without Maceo and his band gleefully shouting “Soul power!” in my ears, Croydon could've been quite depressing. Hopeful rat traps had been tossed into weed- and litter-choked forgotten landscaping along leaning fences and graffiti-covered walls. Cars and trucks roared past me as if desperate to be somewhere else, so I adjusted myself onto what appeared to be the world's least-used cycle path.
One day in a 9-to-5 environment was enough to remind me why I had long since chosen to abandon that world, but the industrial/suburban flavour of the decidedly cynical UK psyche added something I was all to happy to leave behind when 5 o'clock thankfully showed up. I still had lots to do there to keep me busy for the remainder of the week, but Christine and I had great plans for the evening, so I threw the headphones back on and scuttled to the tram.
Christine has the ability to completely vanish in the smallest spaces in a matter of seconds. It's amazing. We can plan to meet up after we each grab an item from adjacent grocery store aisles, then spend fifteen minutes aimlessly looking for each other. No strategy has ever been able to counteract this effect. This makes it all the more brave that we had agreed to meet at the entrance to a museum we'd never been to and knew little about, several streets away from a London tube station neither of us had ever been to, sometime within a half-hour time fame. Ridiculous. Impossible. A disaster waiting to happen. But as I came around what I'd hoped was the right corner, there she was, beaming, at the head of a long queue to get into the most amazing little museum we'd ever seen.
Sir John Soane was a architect, freemason, classicist and avid antiquities collector whose will contained a clause that his museum-like home be left exactly as it was the day he died, which eventually came about in 1837. And apart from cataloguing the house's amazing contents and putting the tea things away, that's exactly what the bright-eyed old character's executors did. One day a month, the house is lit entirely by candles as the limited number of guests make their way through the house, marvelling at the bulging collection of ancient books, stonework, sketches, carvings, paintings, clocks, manuscripts, etc. But far from being an intellectual's arm's-length collection of curiosities, the house virtually explodes all around you with the boundless and joyful enthusiasm Sir John obviously had for the creative output of all humankind. Full marble columns are piled in the house's tiny remaining outdoor space. Constantly needing to expand to accommodate the growing collection, the house itself is punched up and out everywhere, with forward-looking skylights throwing a natural dusky glow on the near-chaos within. The limestone sarcophagus of King Seti I is at the bottom of a towering three-story atrium, lined with a jaw-dropping array of unlabelled artifacts from multiple millenia. A centuries-old and impossibly creak-free floating spiral staircase joins room after room in the world's least-boring museum. The place is almost too remarkable to describe, and seeing it in candlelight was an extraordinary experience. Google on Sir John Soane's Museum, or better still, make a promise to yourself to go there someday. Like most London's museums, admission is free or by donation. Amazing.
Luckily for us, it was two-for-one meat pie night at the Ship Pub just down the street. For all we knew, EVERY Tuesday had been two-for-one pie night since the place opened its doors in 1549 (yes: 1549). There's nothing like having dinner in a real pub. TV sports off in the corner are far less intrusive when you're surrounded by wood, brass and worn-out rose-coloured fabric. The pies were fabulous, especially washed down with a pint each, and we made our way back out to Balham just radiant from a great evening.
When our tube rattled its way to Balham's Undergrond station, a tired voice honked from the train's metallic speaker's that we wouldn't be stopping there, as the station would be closed early for a couple of months for maintenance. Hmm. Sure enough, as we loped past the platform, we could see a handful of droopy grey workers resigning themselves to the fact they'd be spending their evenings there for a while. We exchanged worried glances, having no idea what the actual distance between stations was at that far end of the Northern line, and scurried off at Tooting Bec (how'd you like to say you lived in a place called “Tooting Bec”?). Most of Tooting Bec was either sleeping at home or throwing up within a few yards of us, but someone told us which bus to take, and the red double-decker thankfully appeared just before a witch-like woman staggered to our end of the bus queue.
If you've seen the night bus from Harry Potter, this was it. We sat up top to intensify the experience, pushing aside some old potato chip bags to clear the frontmost seat. I filmed part of the ride, and if I ever become technically savvy, I'll post it wherever people post those sorts of things. The short of it was that we weren't very far from our Balham digs at all, and amused ourselves on our way home by reciting, “Wot you sy yoh nym woz?” and “I didn't”, over and over again.
A Resolution
I, Robert James Robson, being of mind and body no less sound than anyone else's, hereby resolve to resume this blog. The stories and notes are piling up, and I'd rather be writing than coding, so nyah. It's near bedtime here in Seoul, but I'll resume the lost thread tomorrow. How else would anyone know about...oh, you'll see.
Monday, May 11, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Day One
It just wouldn't be a Christine & Rob adventure without shenanigans like packing until 1:30am, sleeping for four hours, then vacuuming the solarium. And why not? It will be a while before we'll get a chance to vacuum any solariums (I'm making a bold assumption here), so lets show those houseplants some love before the new tenants try smoking them, hmm?
Currently exiled to a tiny gate area at the outer reaches of YVR. First stop: Portland, Oregon, where we'll climb onto the plane that will deposit us at Heathrow tomorrow morning sometime. I can just imagine the interview at UK Immigration: "And how long will you be staying in the UK, then?" "Mmm bort glee SNAT touloo fon. Bo."
Christine looks magnificent in her cheeky goth boots, which have already been complimented by a woman whose tiny child seemed to have a better grasp of handheld electronics than I ever will. In fact, this dinosaur laptop is leaving a disturbingly warm sensation in my thighs.
Currently exiled to a tiny gate area at the outer reaches of YVR. First stop: Portland, Oregon, where we'll climb onto the plane that will deposit us at Heathrow tomorrow morning sometime. I can just imagine the interview at UK Immigration: "And how long will you be staying in the UK, then?" "Mmm bort glee SNAT touloo fon. Bo."
Christine looks magnificent in her cheeky goth boots, which have already been complimented by a woman whose tiny child seemed to have a better grasp of handheld electronics than I ever will. In fact, this dinosaur laptop is leaving a disturbingly warm sensation in my thighs.
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