Tag: London

We got back to Knoxville late Wednesday night, and for some reason I’m still feeling jet-lagged and out of sorts. Maybe it’s just the depression that sets in each time I return to the routine and responsibilities of “real life” after a great vacation. I came home with a couple hundred pictures and hope to get them sorted, cropped, labeled, and uploaded into Flickr by the end of the week. Until then, here’s a recap of our last five days.

Friday, the 21st

The pace of the week had started catching up with us by Friday, so after a late breakfast, we went back to our room, watched a little TV, washed some clothes, and napped.  We ran down the street for lunch and browsed the stores around Charing Cross and Oxford, but it was an otherwise uneventful afternoon.

Around 4, we took the Tube to Clapham, a neighborhood a couple miles south of central London, where we met up with one of Joanna’s old friends. Andre’s parents lived next door to Joanna’s when she was in high school, and the two families have kept in touch over the years. We spent a really nice evening with him, his wife, and his brother. Andre and Katrina live in one of the tens of thousands of Victorian row houses that line the streets of London. Amazing ingenuity and foresight those Victorians had. High ceilings, beautiful moldings, solid construction — those houses still have a couple more centuries in them, I’d imagine.

After a full week in London, we both really enjoyed the company as well. It was nice to spend an evening with friends, sharing a bottle of wine over a home-cooked meal.

Saturday, the 22nd

On Saturday morning we headed to Charing Cross Station, where we caught a train to Rye. Andre’s mother lives in The Ancient Town of Winchelsea in East Sussex, 50 miles south of London, and she’d graciously invited us to spend a day with her there. Before heading to her home, Francoise showed us around Rye. We visited the Lamb House, where Henry James lived, and we walked through its gardens. We ate lunch at the Mermaid Inn, which was rebuilt more than 70 years before Columbus sailed the ocean blue. We went shopping (Joanna picked up some Victorian jewelry; I resisted the urge to spend way too much for a 1st edition of A Streetcar Named Desire). And I climbed the narrow steps to the top of the Rye Parish Church.

Winchelsea is a short drive from Rye, close enough and small enough that I could see it all from the top of the Parish Bell Tower. Francoise’s home was originally built in the 17th century as the servant’s quarters for the adjoining mansion. After remodeling the place, she’s decided to put “Little Mariteau” up for sale. It’s a beautiful, storybook-like place with views of rolling sheep lands out the back and St. Thomas’s Church in front. It took us fifteen minutes to walk the whole of Winchelsea, not counting a long stop at the church. She then drove us down to the coast for a quick look at the sea and the rocky shoreline. Even on an impossibly sunny day in late-April the wind was biting.

We spent the night with Francoise, who fixed us an amazing dinner and opened a bottle of wine and a flask of limoncello she’d brought home with her from a recent trip to Italy. Really a wonderful evening.

Sunday, the 23rd

We were back in London by 11:30 Sunday morning. You know how they say you can set your watch by the British trains? Yeah, that’s true. They mean that. I’m obsessive about being early everywhere I go, so I was feeling anxious when Francoise dropped us off just five minutes before our scheduled departure. It took us two minutes to get from her car to the platform; we waited one minute for the train to arrive; two minutes later we were on our way. Unbelievable.

We had to be back by noon in order to check out from our hotel. As an anniversary present, my parents gave us three nights in their timeshare company’s London flat, which is located in Maida Vale. Rather than fight with our bags on the Tube, we took a cab over there, winding our way through the traffic caused by the running of the London marathon. Our driver was relieved to learn that we aren’t fond of Bush. (Bush’s name came up in the first five minutes of every single conversation I had with a Brit, followed soon after by a discussion of America’s absurd healthcare system.) He told us about a group of American businessmen whom he’d accidentally offended a few weeks earlier. He’d been touring them all over the city, and after his harmless Bush joke they’d spoken to him only once, to make a lame crack about America’s victory in the Revolutionary War. “Yeah, but only because we felt sorry for you,” he laughed back. “Why else, do you suppose, we would wear bright red coats and march in a straight line?” He must have told us ten jokes in as many minutes.

After checking in, we walked down to a local grocery store, bought some food, and for the first time in more than a week made our own lunch. Amazing what a luxury that becomes. We killed most of the rest of the day relaxing. Have I mentioned yet that we were in England during the World Snooker Championship? Have I mentioned that the BBC covered it nightly and that I watched a lot of snooker? Because it’s all true. I watched a LOT of snooker.

The only other noteworthy event on Sunday was a return trip to Covent Garden for another meal at Cafe Pasta. Again, the food wasn’t exceptional but the experience was pretty great. We were seated a few inches away from a man in his late-50s who spent the entire evening trying — and failing — to seduce his 30-something dining companion. It was like a free trip to the theatre.

Monday, the 24th

Maida Vale is northwest of central London, so we spent most of Monday exploring the area. First we headed up to the cemetery at Kensal Green, where Wilkie Collins, Anthony Trollope, and William Makepeace Thackery are buried. Honestly, we didn’t see any of their graves, or the graves of any notable personalities for that matter. It was worth the trip, though. Joanna wanted to visit Antiquarius, so next we set off for King’s Road. We walked several blocks through Chelsea, grabbed some lunch at Pizza Express, and quickly realized that the trip was taking its toll on us both. We were getting tired — tired of walking, tired of the crowds, and tired of that nagging feeling that any moment not spent doing something significant was a moment wasted. We vowed to return to the flat earlier than usual that night.

On the way back, though, we stopped off in Notting Hill. I wanted to check out the book and music stores there. We strolled up Portobello Road, which was a ghost town that afternoon, came back through Notting Hill, then walked east toward Kensington Gardens. The walk was largely an excuse to avoid the Tube during rush hour, but it ended up being a really nice experience. We didn’t go into Kensington Palace but we did enjoy the gardens. We found a park bench and rested our legs while bicyclists and joggers rushed by. We were back at the the flat by 7:30. I mentioned the snooker, right?

Tuesday, the 25th

Francoise’s daughter, Michelle, was in Spain over the weekend, so we got together with her on Tuesday. She met us at Oxford Circus, two blocks from where she works, and took us to Ping Pong for lunch. Fantastic dim sum. (In fact, we had our two best meals during our last full day in London.)

After lunch, Joanna and I checked off the last two museums from our list. We walked down Charing Cross Road to the National Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery. When I asked Joanna what I could expect to see at the National Gallery, she said, “All of the famous paintings.” I wasn’t sure what she meant until I got there, looked at the museum guide, and realized, “Oh, this is where they keep all of the famous paintings.” Shuffling through those galleries was another overwhelming experience. There’s just too much to take in. We only spent an hour in the Portrait Gallery, which wasn’t nearly enough time. Stuart Pearson Wright’s paintings were some of my favorites.

So, for our last night in London, we went out for a special meal. Can you guess?

Two blocks from our flat in Maida Vale we found The Clifton, where I ordered fish and chips and a pint of Guinness, and I’ll be damned if it wasn’t the best meal I ate all week. A 10-inch-long cod fillet fried crisp in a light and sweet batter, the other half of the plate piled high with fries, and all of it washed down with the creamiest, richest stout a man can pour. Perfect.

We’ve been running around town at such a pace that when we finally do return to the hotel each night, I don’t have much energy left to write. Here’s a snapshot of the last few days.

Tuesday, the 18th

If I had only one day in London, I’d spend as much of it as possible at the Tate Britain. It’s Joanna’s favorite museum, too, for its collection of Pre-Raphaelite paintings. While she toured the Gothic Nightmares exhibit, I wandered through the contemporary arts wing. Some pieces I plan to write more about later:

• Chris Ofili’s The Upper Room
• Angela Bulloch’s Disenchanted Forest x 1001
• Phil Collins’s they shoot horses
• F. N. Souza’s Two Saints in a Landscape

We spent four or five hours at the Tate before leaving to give St. Paul’s another try. However, we arrived there at 4:05, which, as it turns out, is five minutes after they admit the last visitors. (Read the guide book, then get on the Tube. Read the guide book, then get on the Tube.) So, we traveled back toward the hotel and spent an hour or so at Waterstone’s.

Most sensible people would have just walked back to the hotel from Waterstone’s, but our feet were killing us, so we sunk into the mass of bodies that is the Picadilly Tube stop at rush hour and, for the first and only time all week, we got separated. It was like a scene from a movie. I told Joanna I needed to take a quick look at the map, and by the time I turned back toward her she was gone, engulfed by the tide of commuters. Honestly, I got panicky and even had her name sounded over the intercom, but by that point she was on a train headed north. I learned this a half hour later when we found each other again at the hotel. We spent the rest of the evening relaxing.

Wednesday, the 19th

After visiting five museums in four days, we decided to take a break from all the, you know, culture and, instead, went shopping. Joanna took off for Selfridge’s; I went browsing on Berwick Street. By my count, there are eleven record shops on two blocks of Berwick. I walked into every one of them but came away empty-handed. When I met up with Joanna, she’d had enough of that behemoth of a department store, so we got some lunch, took a quick stroll through Liberty, and then went to Hamleys, where we picked up a gift or two for our niece.

My only request for the trip was that we take in at least one play while here. Our choice came down to The Crucible at The Gielgud or Endgame at The Barbican. Last week, The Crucible received Time Out‘s first-ever six-star review, but Endgame worked better with our schedule. Plus, it gave us a chance to walk around the Barbican, which is a blocks-wide landmark of 1980s prefab concrete construction. Not the prettiest thing to look at but fascinating, nonetheless.

Endgame is being staged as part of the Barbican’s month-long celebration of the Beckett centenary. I’d never read the play, so I’m not sure how this production stacks up, but it certainly felt long. (It came in ten minutes longer that its scheduled 85-minute run, so I assume some of the pacing problems will be worked out by the end of the week.) Kenneth Cranham is great as Hamm; Peter Dinklage is less great as Clov.

Thursday, the 20th

On our third trip to St. Paul’s, we finally got in the door but decided against taking the full tour. We’d both taken it before and wanted to spend our time elsewhere. After a few minutes of gazing around the cathedral, we headed over to the Tower of London. It was my first time there, and I had a ball. We did the whole bit — walking along with a Beefeater and listening to his stories. It really is a remarkable place. I particularly like the occasional areas that are relatively free of signage and velvet ropes, the corners and stairwells that look much as they did eight and nine centuries ago. The Chapel of St. John the Evangelist in the White Tower is just astounding.

We grabbed a late lunch on the way back then headed in different directions for a bit more browsing. Fopp, down on Earlham Street, has a fantastic (and surprisingly inexpensive) selection of CDs, vinyl, DVDs, and books. I swore I wouldn’t buy anything, but I came away with some DVDs: Sexy Beast and the 2-disc collection, The Work of Director Jonathan Glazer, both for a few pounds each, and Carlos Reygadas’s Battle in Heaven. A few minutes of shopping in another country and the strangeness of film distribution economies becomes obvious. The Reygadas film and Sokurov’s The Sun, both of which are still making their way along the festival route in the States, are available on DVD everywhere I turn over here.

A little further up Earlham, I also found The Dover Bookshop, which sells only books related to graphic and web design. Their particular specialty is royalty-free images. I’m proud of myself for having spent less than 15 pounds there.

Last night we finally made our way back to the British Museum. During our first trip there, we were both exhausted from the flight and annoyed by the tens of thousands of visitors who bumped and pushed us at every turn. Late on a Thursday evening, the museum is a quite different place. We had whole rooms to ourselves and took our time wandering through them. I can’t quite comprehend what it means to look at a human artifact from 10 centuries ago. My head just can’t wrap around that.

When we arrived yesterday at St. Paul’s, we discovered that it was closed to tourists. So after snapping a couple pictures, we headed south, taking the millennium footbridge across the Thames to the Tate Modern. For the last half-century the building that now houses the Tate served as the Bankside Power Station; fully renovated in the late-1990s it is more impressive than any of the pieces installed there. It is a massive structure — and I mean 4.2 million bricks massive.

We didn’t stay at the Tate for long. Because it’s undergoing its first major re-installation since opening in 2000, much of the building is closed to visitors. We did take a quick stroll through the main collection, though. The painting I was most struck by was Naked Man with a Knife (1938-40), an early piece by Jackson Pollock. I don’t believe I’d ever seen any of the work he completed before he began pouring, dripping, and throwing paint. Naked Man is representational by comparison, a violent and frightening piece. Seeing it side-by-side (almost literally) with Summertime: 9A (1948) and Yellow Islands (1952) was helpful. Summertime strikes a balance between the two extremes: the dripped paint still finds a pattern and form there.

When we left the Tate, we walked west along the river until we hit the National Film Theatre. From there we hopped back on the underground at Waterloo, headed north, and stopped for lunch in Covent Garden: lamb souvlaki at The Real Greek. Covent Garden was packed with people — too many, actually, for Joanna, who tends to get anxious in crowds. We browsed at a couple shops there before heading back to the hotel.

Last night we walked again to Covent Garden for a great meal at a place called Cafe Pasta. By “great meal” I don’t necessarily mean that we had exceptional food. Instead, we had good food with great wine served by a charming waitress in an inviting room accompanied by pleasant music. Until this week, I don’t think I’d realized how quickly we eat in the States. For our first few meals here, I found myself becoming annoyed by our servers, who, for some reason, didn’t bring us our check within minutes of our finishing the last bites. Eating takes longer and is more of a social occasion here, as it should be. We’ve already planned our return to Cafe Pasta and this time we’ll be sticking around for coffee and desert.

We spent most of today in South Kensington, wandering through the miles and miles (and miles and miles) of galleries at the Natural History Museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum. The whole concept of “the museum” had never seemed so, well, Victorian until we stepped into the Natural History, with its macabre menagerie of taxidermied animals. It’s a very strange and discomforting place. We did get a kick, though, out of the human anatomy exhibition, which reveals, much too obviously, its debt to the kitschy charms of Alex Comfort’s Joy of Sex. Again, I liked the building better than its collections.

The Victoria and Albert is another story completely. After four hours of near constant movement — and fast movement at that — I think we saw about one-fourth of it. I spent much of my time exploring their special exhibition, Modernism: Designing a New World, 1914-1939. It’s a really remarkable collection of paintings, drawings, sculptures, photos, models, posters, costumes, and furniture, along with a car, several films, cookware, book jackets, and — I kid you not — a kitchen. Anything and everything, really, that reflected the major and still-influential turn in post-WWI European aesthetics. (The NFT is hosting a film series as well.) I’ll never look at a Volkswagon Beetle or the London Underground Map the same way.

I was also completely undone by the Raphael Cartoons. Unbelievable.

When we left the V&A, we took a quick stroll up to Hyde Park, though by that time we were both exhausted from all of the walking, and so we didn’t manage much more than a twenty-minute rest on the stairs below the Albert Memorial. A nice view, on a sunny and surprisingly warm day, surrounded by skateboarders and kids playing street hockey.

We fell asleep last night around 9:45, fifteen minutes shy of my goal. I’d sworn I would make it until 10, but with only twenty minutes on the plane and a 30-minute nap in the hotel after we’d checked in, I was going on less than an hour of sleep in a day-and-a-half. Thirteen hours and a complimentary breakfast later, I think we’ve worked most of the jet lag from our systems.

The trip was uneventful. Our flight went smoothly and arrived on time. I’d arranged transportation from Gatwick to our hotel, and, so, soon after gathering our luggage we were greeted by a middle-aged woman with a sign, who led us across the north terminal as quickly as her little legs would carry her before handing us off to one of her colleagues, another middle-aged woman who also walked faster than I typically jog. The very model of English efficiency, they were. Our flight, by the way, kept Joanna’s and my streak alive: we can’t remember the last time we took a trip together and didn’t run into some sort of celebrity. This time it was Pos from De La Soul, who’s in town for a week-long engagement at the Jazz Cafe.

With two hours to kill before our room was ready, we dropped off our bags and wandered through the Egypt and Greece rooms at the British Museum. Three quick observations. (I’m sure we’ll spend more time there this week, when we aren’t delirious from sleep deprivation.) First, the sheer number of artifacts there is overwhelming. I think I would actually prefer there to be, say, ten Assyrian reliefs rather than fifty. It’s too much to process and, in a strange way, makes each one less significant. Relief, relief, relief, relief — okay, I get it already. Second, and on a related note, until seeing examples side by side, it had never occurred to me how remarkable it is that the style of writing/art remained relatively consistent in Egypt over the span of centuries. To my untrained eye, artifacts from 2500 b.c. were indistinguishable from those of 600 years later.

Third, there’s something disturbing (but also interesting, theoretically) about the numbers of people who, rather than looking at artifacts in a museum, instead look at the small LCDs of their digital cameras and camcorders. The experience seems to only become meaningful to them when mediated by technology. Are they more interested in capturing the experience than in the experience itself?

While Joanna took a nap yesterday afternoon, I took my first stroll down Charing Cross Road. It does my heart good to know that somewhere in the world, on one city block, one can buy a new copy of Tarkovsky’s Sculpting in Time in three different book stores. Used copies can also probably be had. Foyle’s alone carries four titles by/about Abbas Kiarostami! If it weren’t for the shitty state of the dollar over here, I would have had to buy another carry-on just for my haul from that one street.

Today, Easter Sunday, much of the city has closed shop, so we’re going to head toward St. Paul’s. I’m not sure what we’ll end up doing, but it’s wonderful to be in a city in which I could see any of the following:

• Hawks double-bill, Bringing Up Baby and To Have and Have Not (Curzon Mayfair)
• Armenia double-bill, Ararat and The Genocide in Me (Curzon Soho)
• American ’70s double-bill, Cabaret and Annie Hall (Curzon Soho)
• Rivette, L’Amour Fou (National Film theatre)
• Modernism double-bill, The Crowd and Metropolis (National Film Theatre)
• Contemporary double-bill, The Beat that My Heart Skipped and The Consequences of Love (Phoenix)
• Polanski, Repulsion (Ritzy Cinema)
• Classic double-bill, Le Mepris and Black Orpheus (Riverside)
• Haneke double-bill, Code Unknown and Cache

Two great meals so far: gyoza and yaki soba at Wagamama; pizza at Strada.

On March 30, Joanna and I will celebrate our 10th anniversary. The idea of it is utterly absurd. Only old people have been married that long. And we’re not old. Certainly not old enough to have shared a home for a full decade. And certainly not old enough to have spent more than a third of our lives together.

I’ll write more about marriage and anniversaries next week, but for now I’m excited to announce that, in celebration of The Big Ten, Jo and I have booked ourselves a flight to London. We’re not especially spontaneous people, so this is all slightly terrifying. Last week, a friend sent us a link to a British Airways deal, we talked about it for a day or two, and then we made our reservations. Twelve days, eleven nights, taking off three weeks from Friday. Crazy.

When I was fifteen, my parents took my sister and me on our last big family vacation together before Laura left for college. It was one of those all-inclusive, “see Paris and London in a week” kind of trips. And I loved every second of it, mostly because of the pack of students — all girls from a high school in Syracuse — who were part of our tour group. Seeing London and Paris was great too. It remains my only experience of Europe.

When we were undergrads, Joanna spent a summer in London and knows the city fairly well. We’ll be spending the first eight nights of our trip in her old stomping grounds — Bloomsbury, directly across the street from the British Museum. The last three nights will be in Maida Vale, three or four miles northwest of there.

There are many, many advantages to living in East Tennessee, but high culture ain’t one of them. Which is why I like to travel once or twice a year to metropolitan centers. We’ll inevitably see some of the touristy sights, but I’m eager to step off the beaten track.

So now I’m seeking advice and recommendations . . .

• Museums — Along with the big ones (the British, the Tate), where do we need to go?
• Restaurants — They say London has the best Indian food in the world?
• Theaters — Where can I see hard-to-find films? Can I take a risk on any particular drama companies?
• Shopping — What are the must-browse book and music stores?
• Live Music — Any favorite clubs or live venues?
• Day trips — I’m thinking a day in Oxford would be fun. Other suggestions?