Hotel Exterior

September 23, 2006

The Flight to London

While I am briefly asleep on the overnight flight to London, I am startled awake by a man with monster-like, glazed eyeballs looking crazed, lurching toward me. He is weaving like he will fall onto me, like he wants to put his hand on my shoulder for support. I notice his pants are undone. Gene says the man already fell onto the two girls in front of us. I try to pick the man’s hand up and move it off me and off my seat; at the same time Gene and I both go for the Flight Attendant call button. The male flight attendant rushes over and tries to drag the man away, but the man falls flat on the floor in the aisle and is out.

I think he is dead.

A second attendant holds the man’s legs in the air.  I wonder what that is supposed to do. Then I smell the stink of shit. Another attendant asks if I am okay and says the man has not been to the toilet for several days. As if that explained everything.

As it becomes morning and we are descending, they announce in a weird over-polite, British, roundabout way that everyone should sit down or go into a holding pattern. No one complies and we are not surprised.

The Trafalgar Hilton

Alison Lapper pregnant

The Barkers

We almost don’t catch up with Kerry & Carl, our Kiwi friends who live in Kent. We leave a message on Carl’s cell, but his generic outgoing message makes me unsure we have the right number. We are antsy and leave a message for the Barkers at the front desk (if you can call it a front desk; its more like a front table). We say we will be at Waxy O’Connor’s, a pub four or five blocks away. We swim upstream through the theater-goers to Waxy’s. The pub is packed and smoky and we decide not to stay. We race back through the sea of theater-goers to change the message. But Carl and Kerry have picked up our message and are on their way to Waxy’s. We race back through the theater-goers and find them looking through the tree house rooms of the pub for us. Waxy’s isn’t their type of place either and we move on.

Kerry, Kate and Carl

We duck into at a deserted pub called Two Gentlemen for a couple of pre-dinner drinks and to catch up.We haven't seen the Barkers since our last visit to New Zealand in 2001. We choose the ornate Thai restaurant next door for dinner. My red curry isn’t that hot, but something in it makes my throat close up. For two beats, I can’t get any air. I drink water and the feeling subsides. I fill my curry bowl with rice to dilute it, but three times, I feel the same strange sensation. I wonder if I am allergic to peppers

We have a nightcap in our hotel lobby bar. Kerry and Carl have to be at Victoria Station to get the last train back to Kent by 11:20. Carl tries to book a hotel room during dinner, but a room costs £286 (double that for US dollars!). We walk them to Charing Cross Underground station and say goodbye to our friends from Kent.

Gene and I both need pre-bed snacks and find a 7-11ish place with plastic-packed pre-made sandwiches. I get a plain bagel. Hours earlier, I told Carl and Kerry that I would never eat a bagel outside New York. The bagel is pretty good.

September 24, 2006

Bucking Ham n' Cheese

We wake up this morning with only minutes to scramble to the breakfast that is included in the price of our room. I have granola, croissant and fruit. Gene takes the opposite: sausage, toast, mushrooms and eggy-type stuff that may or may not be eggs. I remember how much I liked the garlic mushrooms on toast that is a popular breakfast dish in New Zealand.

We walk down The Mall (rhymes with “shall”) to Buckingham Palace. (Don’t say “Bucking-HAM”, said Kerry, its “Bucking-um”.) Bucking Ham ‘n Cheese is like nothing I’ve seen. A garden of purple flowers outlined in red flowers sits in front of glittery gold gates. Older American architecture has some ornamentation and sculptural elements but nothing like everything in Royal London.

Changing Guards

We stumble upon the Changing of the Guard, an event tourists often plan their day around. I wonder if the guards feel silly or if they enjoy the ritual. (I feel silly when I realize that the little ceremony we watched is not the changing of the guards at all, but maybe, a request to use the john.)

Click on the picture to see what is NOT the Changing of the Guard.

Record Shopping, a must in every city

We walk the Queen’s Walk to Shaftsbury Rd, then up Berwick Street to browse some record stores. Berwick Street is perfect for me and Gene:  record stores alternate with jewelry stores. Gene buys a Small Faces box set in a round tin and Harry Nilsson’s third album. We walk down Charing Cross and stop in a couple of bookstores.

Who's the four-faced liar?

We walk by the Houses of Parliament and we debate whether the Clock Tower is Big Ben. It must be, but I thought Big Ben was a two-sided clock. We only see two sides of Big Ben, but they are adjacent sides, so it must have four sides.

When I moved to Milwaukee, someone, (everyone!), pointed to the Allen-Bradley clock and proclaimed it was the largest four-sided clock in the world. Responding to “What about Big Ben?”, Milwaukeans told me BB is a two-sided clock and therefore, Allen-Bradley wins. I am certain I have perpetuated this rumor.

Is the Glass Egg Half-Full?

We walk across the Westminster Bridge after peeing in the tube station for 50 pence (I’ll pay 50 pence to pee in a clean, safe place.) toward the London Eye. I think a spontaneous night time ride would be fun. Gene is reluctant to be trapped in a glass egg with strangers. I admit I’m intimidated by The Tube, irrationally, as I ride the NYC subway daily. It’s the ticket system that intimidates me.

We stop at a pub on Whitehall Street. We sit outside with a wine and a beer and discuss plot points for the next Channel 102/Baked Ziti film and discuss what’s with Christmas bookings here? Every merchant has a sign outside begging customers to hurry and book for Christmas now, in late September. Does everyone one here eat Christmas dinner out? Even Burger Shack is hawking for Christmas reservations.

September 25, 2006

Opulence at Harrods

Gene stays behind while I trek to Harrods in drizzling rain. I take two slight wrong turns before I find the department store monolith. Harrods makes Saks look like a dime store. Much of the first floor is Egyptian-themed; a big gold mummy case towers over the escalators to the basement. The food market and café amaze me:  chocolate counters with pharaoh-shaped Belgian chocolates, a cheese case that lines an entire wall, baskets, champagne and tea and teddy bears large and small. A million kinds of herring too!

The London Tube

Angus McBean

The rain turns into all-afternoon affair and we go to the National Portrait Gallery on the north side of Trafalgar Square. We start in the Angus McBean exhibit. McBean was a surrealist photographer who photographed theater stars and later in his career, album covers. Notable subjects:  Vivian Leigh, Shirley Bassey and The Beatles. He also created an annual Christmas card self-portrait. He placed himself in various sets and often double-exposed himself.

You can get arrested twice for that!

Moon in Outer Spacey

Our concierge scores us good seats for tonight’s performance of Moon for the Misbegotten, my favorite Eugene O’Neill play, starring Kevin Spacey, now the artistic director of The Old Vic theater. Our hotel doesn’t have a front desk, just a large, waist-high table with four computer stations, both sides identical. Employees wear all black. We ask the nearest black-clad person where we can pick up our theater vouchers.  She tells us we must ask at the concierge desk. Where might the concierge desk be, we ask? The concierge desk is the other half of the table. Oh.

We take The Tube back to Charing Cross and walk toward Leicester Square just as all the pubs are closing. Needing a bathroom, a cash machine and food, we stop at an overly-lit Italian place we know will be disappointing. Gene has been looking forward to a hand-drawn ale and tonight, he isn’t going to get it. The waitress tells me the Chardonnay truck broke down and I too, settled.

September 26, 2006

The Bloody Towers

We go to The London Dungeon and get in the dark queue. Gene feels a little squeamish and claustrophobic and at £17 apiece, I concur. We leave the line, walking against the crowd in the dark. Despite bailing out, I get the thrill/scare I am after. As we approach the exit, a door swings open at us. Both me and the costumed employee jump out of our skins. Somehow, his crotch walks into my hand and we are both embarrassed.

The Best Fish & Chips in London

We are the first ones in, but people fill up the place quickly. It is an after-work crowd, mostly men. A large red-haired, red-faced man, a classic Englishman, sits at the table next to ours. He opens his pocket watch and places it on the table where it remains throughout his meal. Gene and I agree that the North Sea Fish House is the best Fish & Chips ever:  thick, clean-tasting fish and a great batter that doesn’t overwhelm the fish.

Hilton Hipness

The bar has stools around the perimeter of the white-walled roof and modern white sofas. Candles inside orange cubes sit on low white tables. We have a night time view of Trafalgar Square and beyond.

We go to the Scottish bar/restaurant next door. A sleek New York-y bar contrasts with the old wood pubs we’ve visited the last four days. Gene confounds the bar staff by ordering a bourbon Manhattan. The waitress, after a slight hesitation, says she knows what a Manhattan is. After ten or fifteen minutes she brings my drink but not Gene's. I watch four bartenders, two on duty and two off, consulting on the Manhattan.

When the waitress swings by again, she tells us there is no problem making the drink, they just had to retrieve Knob Creek from the basement.  I watch the bartenders measure and shake and stir and taste and give each other tastes. Finally, Gene receives his drink and he likes it, though it doesn’t taste exactly like a Manhattan. The big orange peel floating in the drink looks like a barbecued potato chip.

September 27, 2006

Great Signs

We love the abundance of public toilets all over London. The toilets in The Tube are sparkling clean and have full-time attendants. Watch out for the “To Let” signs, they look an awful lot like “Toilet”.  Its easy to get in the habit of saying "toilet" but the word has a vaguely dirty connotation back home.

Gene is feeling sick today, probably too many fish & chips. I hike back up Charing Cross road and stop in Foyles, the famous bookstore. I peek into Ray’s Jazz, a jazz CD and album section of Foyles. I hustle down Oxford Street to the costume jewelry store I read about. But I am running out of time and I duck into Marks & Spencer. I try on purple jeans and brown cords. What I try on is less than perfect, so I put them back and hurry to The Trafalgar.

We have just enough time to pack before our late check-out deadline. I haven’t bought anything and still, my suitcase can hardly close. We abandon the idea of a trek to Abbey Road for lack of time. We contemplate zipping through the National Museum, but settle for cappuccino and shortbread cookies at Caffe Nero on Charing Cross. The cappuccino in London is much better than anywhere is the United States!

Now we're off to Victoria Station and the Gatwick Express train and onto Barcelona!v