London at Light Speed
Our trip to London will only make sense once everyone is clear about one fact: Tim is OBSESSED with Les Misérables (Les Mis). To be clear, he is not concerned at all with the actual book by Victor Hugo, in fact, I am not even sure that he knew the book existed for many, many years prior to the creation of the musical play. But Tim likes musical theatre in general and Les Mis in particular. Back in March when we saw Beach Blanket Babylon in San Francisco, he saw for the second time their modern political version of the Act One closing song “One More Day” and that sent him on a mission to find a theater version of Les Mis. Well, it is the show’s 25th anniversary and it is having a revival as a touring show in various British theaters as well as a limited showing in Paris, which makes sense given that the action of the play takes place in Paris. The show is in residence at the Queen’s Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue in London. This knowledge led to the discovery that tickets were available and that knowledge led to the quickest phone call ever witnessed to the Delta Diamond Medallion Desk to book two Business Elite flat bed seats to London Heathrow from Atlanta. Now you know the why and we can get on with the what.
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Getting Started In Atlanta
As we always do, we started our journey at the check-in counter in Atlanta. Granted that it is entirely possible to check-in on-line, or in the downstairs area just across from the parking lot, but for reasons strictly of ego, I check-in upstairs in the special people’s line that rarely has anyone in it so that other frustrated and harried travelers waiting in long lines to pay to check bags or to have ticket issues resolved can gnash their teeth at the site of me whisking into and out of a non-existent line due to my special status. The agent doesn’t DO anything different, but they do whatever they do a great deal faster. Oh, and while I realize that some people pay to check bags and for other stuff, I don’t ever pay a fee for anything other than the ticket. I hear they sell food and drinks in flight too but I wouldn’t know about that.
The only minor thing to mar the experience of check-in was that the agent was unclear about the newest, and highest, level of Delta specialness. Some aspects of our ticket were already dealt with, which is apparently rare in ticket agent land, so she noted this and asked if we had talked through that part with the Platinum Medallion desk prior to arrival at the airport. Well, no, actually, I DIDN’T talk to the Platinum Medallion desk, dear, because I talked to the freakin’ DIAMOND Medallion desk which is better any day than the lowly Platinum Medallion desk. Granted, I realize that there isn’t actually a desk made of Diamond, or Platinum for that matter, anywhere in a call center in Salt Lake City, Cincinnati, or Fort Lauderdale, the places that Delta has domestic call centers, and you can bet that we don’t get transferred to India either. I also realize that all the special number does is ring us to the front of the call queue, not to some agent waiting in high anticipation for only Diamond members to call in. But I like my illusions.
Delta’s New Flat Bed Service to Heathrow
One of the attractions of the Atlanta-Heathrow service is the new lay flat bed seats that Delta has installed. Most Business Elite seats recline almost flat, to something in the neighborhood of 170 degrees, but that last 10 degrees can be pesky especially if you are tall and don’t quite fit the fully extended seat without bending the knees a bit. Granted, even that is far superior to what the peons in Coach have, but still, why not always be in search of something just slightly better? We had lay flat seats on the Sydney-LAX run and while those certainly were flat, they were also a bit claustrophobic and tight. But, they are truly designed for the single business traveler who doesn’t know the person seated next to him and who doesn’t want to, so they serve that purpose quite well. These seats were different in that they were not angled relative to the aisle and you could talk to the person next to you if you sat in the center of the cabin instead of at a window. Every seat has direct aisle access, as was true from Sydney as well, which is nice in that you don’t have to crawl over someone, or have someone crawl over you, when you want to use the lavatory. Your legs slot into the space that is under the seat side table of the person in front of you, which can feel a bit restrictive, again, if you are particularly claustrophobic. I found that I could comfortably sleep in most any position I chose to assume, back, sides, or stomach, and without doubt the full size pillow and down comforter helped with that. In fact, I found myself almost annoyed when the cabin crew started to serve breakfast since I didn’t feel that I had completed my sleep time just yet! If you have the chance to fly this type of service, I would do it in a heartbeat. Currently, Delta only offers these seats on the London routes. The other flat bed seats are reserved for Sydney-LAX and Atlanta-Johannesburg. And by the way, how clever and brilliant of Delta to be offering the ONLY non-stop service to the FIFA World Cup aside from South African Airways! No other US-based carrier offers such service, condemning their football (soccer) loving fans to connections across airlines which usually means pesky terminal changes which are sometimes very time consuming. Bravo Delta!
Granted, the in-flight crew service level was a bit off on this flight. As I was seated in the “B” seat I fared better than Tim whose “C” side service was as slow as could be. In fact, I had finished my entrée before his was even served! I tried to wait to eat with him, but the heat level on my steak was questionable to begin with. At least my steak was completely cooked, which could not be said of Tim’s. I did find it odd that the same meal on the same plane could vary so widely, but there it was. And again, let me verify that I DO realize that whatever the service was in seat 4B was FAR superior to what someone in 24B was getting, stuck as they were between two other passengers amongst other indignities. I was also annoyed by the location of the lavatories for Business Class which was directly adjacent to the Coach section, separated only by the blue mesh curtain which was frequently disrupted, against ALL the rules, by pushy coach passengers who didn’t want to walk back and wait for their own lav. They should have been lashed! Admittedly I survived the affront to my dignity, but still…
Also on the plus side was the British gentleman in seat 4A who appeared to be a frequent passenger on the trans-Atlantic service. Shortly after takeoff he scurried back to the loo where he changed into pajamas for greater comfort while sleeping! What a brilliant idea that should have occurred to me long before. I vowed to do this on the return flight, and I did, and what a difference shorts and a t-shirt made over khakis and Oxford shirt to my sleepy time flight.
Arriving at London Heathrow
One of the joys of arriving at London Heathrow is watching all the new and never before seen airline liveries. Well, OK, it is one of the great joys for me. For example, how many of you have seen an Air Mauritius plane before? How many of you know where and what Mauritius even is? I’ll wait while you consult an atlas, hmmm, hmmmm, hmmmmm. OK, got it? Great!
I had a rather unique and memorable experience with immigration at Heathrow. When asked why I was coming to the United Kingdom I said that I had tickets to see Les Mis that very night in fact and wasn’t I grateful that the Icelandic volcano had cooperated in allowing my flight through. “Oh, seeing Les Mis are you,” said Immigration? Are you a big fan of Victor Hugo then? “No,” I replied, “I am not really much into French literature since I was an English Literature major in college.” “Really? So, who is your favorite English author?,” continued Immigration. Yeah, this was getting weird now. “Well,” said I, “without a doubt Chaucer.” This seemed a safe reply since I was the Chaucer student of the year in 1995 and since it was far more original than the tired answer of Shakespeare. At this point, I was queried about which of the Canterbury Tales was my favorite (I chose the Pardoner’s Tale as being uniquely different from the over used Wife of Bath) and then I had to explain why. Good grief! This was worse than a San Jose State English Department final examination! Then she recounted how she meant to get back to Chaucer since it would read so differently to an adult than it did to a 15 year old girl back in the day. Didn’t I agree that it would be different for an adult reader? Well, yes, of course it would. Thankfully, the final exam ended and I was cleared to enter.
The other fantastic thing about Heathrow is how incredibly painless it is to get into downtown London. There are, of course, the iconic black London cabs, and if you have a spare $100 or so that is just the ticket for you. There is also the Heathrow Express train line with service to Paddington Station (yes, the same station that Elspeth McGillicuddy left from on the 4:50 service that caused her to be the only witness to a brutal strangling murder…see Agatha Christie for details) and there is also the London Underground, the Tube, a system that has served London since Victorian times. We boarded the Cockfosters service on the Piccadilly Line, made a simple change at Hammersmith to the District Line, and arrived at Temple Station to find ourselves literally across the street from our hotel, Swissotel, The Howard.
Swissotel, The Howard
If you go to London, and if you can get a reasonable deal, something other than the rack rate of £450 (or $654) per night, stay here in a river view room. By London, San Francisco, or New York standards the rooms are very generously sized and the view of the River Thames is amazing along with the easy views of Parliament, Big Ben, and the London Eye from your room. Better yet, cross the street and climb up to the observation park on the Victoria Embankment along with the stretching joggers and lazy bench sitters. In terms of the location, how do you beat being across the street from the District and Circle lines and one block off the Strand? You are close enough and yet far enough away, from most of the major sights and attractions to reach them for your purpose but to not have to stay in the midst of the madness of Covent Garden or Piccadilly.
Popping Into Starbucks
The one thing that Swissotel really didn’t do well was to make a room available at the specified check-in time of 3pm. Following a trans-Atlantic flight, one thing that most everyone wants to do is to have a chance to freshen up, perhaps take a brief nap, etc before heading out into the city. Fortunately, unlike most trans-Atlantic flights that are calculated to get you into Europe at the crack of dawn or before, Delta’s London service from Atlanta arrives at the civilized hour of noon (still 7am in Atlanta). Since we had only a carry-on bag apiece, we didn’t have long waits at Heathrow before transiting in to the City, arriving about 2pm. We didn’t mind waiting for an hour and went up to the Strand, a once fashionable residential and promenading street, but now pretty well given over to more commercial and academic developments, including our destination, Starbucks. Now before you trash us too loudly for choosing such a quintessentially American establishment, consider that we were in the land of tea drinkers and we desperately needed a coffee infusion to confront the late afternoon and yet to occur 3 hour theater production and dinner all before sweet slumber. Also consider that we would visit the home base of English tea making, Twinnings, in the same location for 300 years, in the coming days, and that we would never again patronize a global company while in London. Also consider that we are the same souls who braved dark Cairo streets to eat with the locals as the only non-Egyptians in the kebab restaurant. And if that isn’t good enough to atone for our drinking at Starbucks, the hell with you!
The really cute, although at first off putting, thing about Starbucks was the community service crime prevention officer who was working there. The moment we walked in we must have simply screamed non-local because this uniformed man started talking to us in what was English but which was nonetheless unintelligible to either of us at first. We stared at him, we stared at each other, until finally he asked us very slowly, “DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?” Oh yes, we spoke English! Now we understood what he was about. He was warning us of a pick pocket method by which a seemingly drunk person outside a pub will seek to give you a drunken hug while actually robbing you blind. Thanks for the advice mate!
Piccadilly Circus and Les Mis
The show itself was stunning and worth the trip. I am not in general a big Broadway fan, certainly not like Tim is, but even I found it worthwhile. It was highly emotional, well performed, and brilliantly sung. It helped that we had premium seats in the center of row A of the dress circle with completely unobstructed views. I continue to be baffled as to why theater seats have to be so blessedly small, but even that couldn’t detract from the stage magic of the performance.
Going to Sitar on the Strand
Following the show we were hungry for dinner but we were not enamored of the over-priced and questionable quality food to be found on the Circus, so we headed back towards the Howard and the Indian restaurants on the Strand that we had seen earlier. I am given to understand that English cooking is moving up in the standards from world class joke to respectable if not quite the quality of the French, German, Spanish, Italian, or most anyone else for that matter, but still better than the boiled beef days. I wasn’t convinced, and my breakfast the following morning wouldn’t allay my fears one bit either, so I went with what is best to eat in London for both palate and pocket, which is a selection from the amazing plethora of ethnic restaurants and foods. During our stay we had Indian, Brasilian, and Chinese all done quite well, or at least better than the hot dog, beans, and milky tea I was given for breakfast one, and only one, morning. Sitar Indian restaurant on the Strand had excellent Jalfrezi for the spicy taste and outstanding mild Korma. This was complimented by outstanding service and very reasonable prices. The restaurant really couldn’t take credit for providing the floor show in the form of a very gregarious Irish gentleman who kept the table of 7 immediately next to us, and us by extension, entertained for the entirety of our meal. I’m not sure the group didn’t weary of his ongoing antics at some point, but presumably they all knew one another from work or some such. The group highlighted the multicultural reality of modern London in that the group of seven included South Asian, East Asian, African, Irish, and English. London distilled into a table for 7 for dinner.
Eating on the Cheap at Tesco
Ultimately my favorite English food spot would prove to be the Tesco Express which was essentially a local version of 7-11 that had more groceries that the American version including fresh produce and ready to eat sandwiches. A sandwich for £2 in London is one hell of steal so you might as well grab it when you find it. I paid a great deal more for Chilean grapes but a fruit fit was upon me and I couldn’t be denied. We would visit the Tesco to stock our mini-fridge several times during our stay. This is perfect for swallowing pills at night and in the morning as well as for satisfying those 3am cravings for a little something sweet. We did have a fancy single serve coffee maker in our room that we became so fond of that we now have one at home too. In theory if you make and consume fancy coffee at home instead of at Starbucks roughly 50 times it will pay for itself. I am personally addicted to the chai tea lattes it makes. I admit it without shame and think I shall have one right now in fact!
Getting Moving, St. Paul’s, and Dr. Johnson
Following an excellent night’s sleep, I was awake at 5am London time, midnight Atlanta time. This tends to be a hazard of international travel and I tried valiantly to return to sleep so as to not annoy Tim to death. I think I slept in fits and starts from there on until I judged that 7am was a reasonable hour at which to arise and start the sightseeing day. Stupidly I chose to do this by having breakfast at a small café without remembering what to expect from what the English euphemistically call sausage along with baked beans and broiled tomato. I think if you have a can of beans and franks you are really pretty close to what you will end up with. Tim loved it and I loathed it. Better to stick with a bagel or muffin!
Given our location, it made sense to me to start off down the Strand past the Inns of Law and on towards St. Paul’s cathedral. A stopping point on this journey would be Samuel Johnson’s house, preserved amidst very tony law firms and high rises in a rabbit’s warren of streets just off the Strand. As an English major I was enthralled with seeing the home of such a luminary of English letters while meanwhile Tim was only thrilled to discover that the GPS on his camera had a lock on our location. And this instance highlights, I think, the difference in seeing London for me versus for Tim. Granted, I had been to London before this while Tim hadn’t, so I was very willing to see things that he wanted to see if only he knew what that was. As far as he was concerned he came to London to see Les Mis and having done that, well, who cared what else we did? London was just another city to Tim, a man who has been to lots of cities. I was admittedly a bit baffled as to what to do with him in London. In his mind we were only staying as long as we did because that was how long until our ticket fare class became available again for the flight home. For me, a guy who was an English Literature major in college, who has read literally every novel and story written and published by Dickens, including the first murder mystery in the world, which isn’t even finished, (frustration express…who do YOU think killed Edwin Drood?) to say nothing of all the works of Jane Austen, Shakespeare, and many other English writers ancient and modern. London to me is the city of the Venerable Bede, it is the place where so much of our relevant history happened or was influenced from. I know English history and the succession as well or better than I know the history of the United States and the story of the presidencies. London to me is alive with stories and history everywhere you step from palaces to train stations that have figured in the tales and dramas that have filled the hours of my life. For Tim, London is a big city where they drive on the wrong side of the road.
I thought that perhaps St. Paul’s cathedral would strike awe into him, finished as it was in the early 17th century when the Elizabeth on the throne was the original, not the Second. To me this is an iconic building that survived the great fire of London as well as the Blitz and which is the ultimate expression of architectural greatness that was Christopher Wren. Tim thought it was a pretty and really big church. And that’s OK, because it is that if you don’t have any other foundation in the history of London or Britain. Confronted with the masses of people seeking to get inside and also confronted with the £15 admission price, I thought it wasn’t that important to see inside beyond the vestibule and instead I admired the views from the outside from as far away as the River Thames itself.
Off to the Tower!
I thought that perhaps the Tower of London would peak Tim’s interest since I figured that everyone but everyone had heard of the place, usually due to the almost prurient interest the place sparks in people because of the handful of famous executions that took place inside or on the fields outside what is actually a collection of buildings, palaces, and churches that was in existence prior to the arrival of the Romans in Britain, who expanded the existing Saxon, Angle, and Celtic fortifications. Parts of Roman walls still stand today and the main tower structure itself, the White Tower, has components that date from the 11th century. One of the highlighted exhibits inside is of a fireplace design that was new at the time since it featured a chimney. Everything has to be invented at some point although few of us have been inside buildings where a chimney would have been considered the latest thing in home interior design. This is the kind of ancient history that just doesn’t remain extant in the United States.
The Tower features historical actors who reenact some of the events that took place in the history of the Tower and tell stories that are at least entertaining. The tower is indeed the place to gawk at roughly where the scaffold stood for the likes of Anne Boleyn and the Lady Jane Grey. It is also now the home of the Crown Jewel collection which you are whisked past on a moving sidewalk and of which you are forbidden to take photos. Suffice it to say that they are suitably magnificent and of enough grandeur to capture even Tim’s interest. Displays of armor are also on view in the main tower building along with the iconic Beefeaters and ravens in the courtyards. You can view a display on torture methods, actually a relatively rare occurrence in the history of Britain, such that the United States has probably administered more torture in the last 10 years than in the history of Britain. And of course one can visit the restored apartment of Sir Walter Raleigh who lived a life imprisoned that was far better than many of his free contemporaries and certainly more luxurious than any modern prison I have seen.
In historical time, the Tower was actually quite a distance from populated London and was usually reached by river boat. Traveling on the River Thames is complicated by its nature as a tidal river, meaning that its level and navigability varies with the ocean tides quite dramatically, which is easily seen when the tide is out in London. This also allowed for a rather cruel execution method for those convicted of piracy, whereby they were suspended from the river walls at low tide at such a level that as the tide returned the river would rise above their heads and slowly drown them. This process was repeated for three tides at which time it was assumed that the pirates were sufficiently dead.
Back to Westminster and St. Martin’s
We returned towards central London, moving through The City and back into Westminster. These divisions of modern London primarily serve to help locate one in the overall sprawl, but long ago these were actually separate villages with fields and such in between them. The City of London itself is where today one finds the high end financial establishments and many stuffed shirts during the work day, but very little at night. The former village of Westminster is where many of the famous monuments and such are found, including the relatively recent addition of Buckingham Palace. The Palace of St. James, very nearby, is much more historically important even though today it houses only the more minor of the royals, including the Queen’s rather nasty daughter Anne. The point here is to remind readers that today’s London is truly an agglomeration of formerly separate villages and townships.
We returned to Westminster by way of the Embankment tube station, from which we walked up towards the Charing Cross National Rail Station (long ago, this spot was located in the hamlet of Charing, see above agglomeration point, and there was a stone cross here). I visited Boots the Chemist because I love the resonance of the name of a business that has featured in many novels and books I have read over the years and because both Tim and I were annoyed with the small hotel size soaps and wanted a real bar of suds! I picked a uniquely English variety, also the cheapest, which was coal tar soap. Coal tar soap has a unique scent to say the least and it is believed to have antiseptic and anti-parasitic properties. It has long been considered a medicated soap used against acne, psoriasis, and eczema amongst other skin diseases. I don’t have any of those ailments, but still it seemed the thing to get while in England.
My immediate goal was the church of St. Martin’s in the Fields because Tim had mentioned it since he would occasionally hear broadcasts from there on National Public Radio. I happened to remember where it was from my previous visit to London, located on the edge of Trafalgar Square and at the head of the Mall on the way to Buckingham Palace which was what I figured we would gawk at next before darkness fell. Tim has expressed a hope that we could visit this location but he wasn’t sure we would have time since he believed, based on the name, that the Church would be outside London in some bucolic field. The name of the church refers to a specific Saint Martin of Tours, the saint being identified with a field of battle instead of a field of agriculture, and the location of the building named for him doesn’t factor in at all into the name. Little did I know that I had unwittingly stumbled upon probably the second most fascinating thing in all of London from Tim’s perspective, the first being of course Les Mis itself.
Little did I realize that St. Martin’s was actually hosting a concert that very evening! Yikes! If you don’t already know, St. Martin’s specializes in baroque music recitals and live recordings. Now, I have a firm belief that baroque music has its appropriate venues, specifically elevators, dental chairs, and Ye Olde Renaissance Faire, but I wasn’t keen to spend even a relatively minor £10 and two hours during my stay in London to listen to it. But, I realized that this was one of those moments in travel and in a relationship when one compromises. Let’s face facts: Tim travels primarily because it is my dream to do so. He is generally a good sport about it and occasionally even comes up with an idea or two, but left to his own devices, Tim would stay home with the puppies aside from the occasional visit to family and he would be perfectly content with that arrangement. So, given the general magnitude of the travel he puts up with on my behalf and given that I had been to London before, 2 hours of light snoozing to baroque classics was really not that big of a price to pay, especially in light of the almost childlike joy and glee with which Tim greeted the admittedly rather unique and unscripted opportunity.
Getting to Greenwich
The next day we headed out to Greenwich, a charming village to the south of London proper, but still easily reached via the magnificence that is London transit. A new feature and addition to the system is the London Overground, which is a series of computer controlled elevated trains that cover new territory formerly accessible only by bus. We rode the Overground out through the Mudflats and Dockyards neighborhoods past such station stops as India Quay (pronounced “key) and West Indies Quay because these are the former docks for the British clipper merchant marine that helped Britannia to rule the waves. Shipping of that sort is of course long since dead and the area was fairly destitute and dreary for years until an ambitious urban renewal project turned it into one of the most desirable locations in all of London to live, work, and play. The area is now home to glass and steel towers for insurance and investment firms along with very high end condominium homes. If there is any doubt about the value of this real estate, consider that Ferrari doesn’t open a retail location in the slums! But, they almost did since immediately bordering this renewed and revamped area are some of the grungiest council houses you could ever wish you hadn’t seen. London’s council houses, akin to housing projects like Cabrini Green in Chicago, are a sight that most tourists don’t see and I am sure the London Tourism Bureau, or its kin, doesn’t want you to either. Make no mistake, just like any other major urban area, London has its blight and a trip on transit will expose it.
Musings on the Injustice of Public Housing
Now I am going to make enemies here, but I have long wondered why it is that we allow and subsidize housing for those who can’t afford to live in a given location and who often live on public assistance when working people and families have to move out of these desirable locations because they can’t afford to live there. I would have a better chance of living in San Francisco or Key West, Florida, or London for that matter, if I were an unemployed single and crack addicted mother of 16 than I would as a working person, and honestly, something about that just rankles me. I fail to understand why we reward those who take from us all with housing in prime locations and cities instead of forcing those who want free housing and who don’t have career reasons to live in Manhattan, for example, to live outside of the high value areas, say in Kansas for example. The entire state could be turned over to public housing for all I care. If residents finished an education, gained marketable skills, and cleaned up their addictions, then they too could compete fairly with other urban professionals for a slice of the limited real estate pie in highly desirable locations. But to reserve and give away that which others who are contributing to all of us have to work so hard and sacrifice so much to gain seems frankly ridiculous. And don’t forget the power politics that ensure that Los Angeles County public housing isn’t in Beverly Hills or Brentwood. It is nice to talk infill and scattered site housing as long as that is truly what you mean instead of the more usual crowding out of the middle income in favor of either the very wealthy who can buy what they want or the very poor, unemployed, and unmotivated who are given what they don’t deserve. There, I said what I think, now burn me in effigy if you must!
In Greenwich
I assure you there is no public housing in Greenwich and I find it highly unlikely that there ever will be. The village is a well preserved and heavily touristy respite from London, filled with trees and idyllic walks through the expanse of Greenwich Park, a former royal hunting preserve. But the geek reason to visit Greenwich is of course to see the observatory and to straddle 0 degrees Meridian, the Prime Meridian, the arbitrary line of longitude that defines and separates the eastern and western hemisphere (along with the 180 degree line on the opposite side of the globe of course, roughly, but not entirely, followed by the International Date Line). Measuring longitude with certainty was a major obstacle to global trade and sailing before it was figured out. Originally, it was highly tied to accurate time keeping, so there are many examples of highly accurate clocks that would work on a moving ship at Greenwich. Knowing our exact location with ridiculous accuracy is something that today even our phones and cameras do as extra features that we don’t pay extra for, but at the time of the building of the Royal Observatory at Greenwich, this was highly sought after information that was almost magical and incredibly lucrative. Many people gave their lives trying to discover a reliable way to calculate longitude. The winner of the race to determine longitude exactly, given that latitude measurements were already possible, would have the corner on the trade and military markets with the advantage of knowing the exact positions of enemy ships and fortifications as well as valuable trade areas. For something so sought after and fought over in its day, today it seems quaint and simple. There is a great deal of history in Greenwich for those interested in navigation and time keeping, but there is also the sheer entertainment value of spanning two hemispheres at once along with outstanding views and pleasant walks in the park that surrounds the Observatory hill. It is a site well worth a few hours of your day.
Going Brazilian in Earlsfield
After Greenwich we used two subway lines and a suburban commuter train to end up within 30 meters of a Brazilian churrascaria, or steak house, in the suburb of Earlsfield. Tim and I love these places which are monuments to carnivores. Vegetarians and Vegans need not apply here! We loved it all, except the skewers of chicken hearts, and we left thoroughly satisfied even if Tim did give the Queen a headache from pinching his pound coin so hard and arguing for the special deal he saw advertised in the local Brazilian magazine (I told you London was totally multicultural didn’t I?). You could almost wonder where Tim gets his fish-wifely thrift and bargain seeking missile-like behavior, but once you meet his Mother, it will all make sense.
I think one of the greatest lessons about London that our visit to the suburb of Earlsfield demonstrates is that London transit is amazing and thorough. Given a starting and end address, the London Transit website plotted multiple routes for us, complete with arrival and departure times, all of which were met, meaning we could find this restaurant and get back to the hotel with no interruptions or issues and never a walk of more than 30 or so meters. It was an amazing performance that I don’t think any city in the United States, not even New York, could duplicate in terms of ease of transit and access. Bravo to London on that point! And over time we would make the ease of London transmit part of our experience of the city itself.
Westminster Abbey
The morning of our final day in London I made a point of getting up extra early to try to beat the worst of the crowds at Westminster Abbey. We arrived in Westminster before the Abbey opened, so we wandered over to peak down heavily guarded Downing Street to Number 10. Compared to the White House and other housing provided for heads of state, 10 Downing isn’t very impressive and I have to assume that state functions, such as dinners, are held elsewhere. Number 10 is so small that one of the recent prime ministers who had several children actually traded up to Number 11 that was larger.
Finally, we made our entry to Westminster Abbey. When I was in London before, I contented myself with seeing the outside of the Abbey because of the enormous crowds and the relatively enormous admission price. But I wanted to visit for probably the same reason that everyone else did, well, except for the reason that those on tour buses did which was because the bus stopped so they got off with no sense of the why it was worth seeing other than because the shepherd said so. I wanted to see the final resting places of so many of the luminaries of British social, political, and literary life. I hadn’t realized that Elizabeth I and Mary I are buried in a shared tomb for example and given my history of literature and Chaucer how appropriate that I was able to lay my hand on the cold stone of his tomb and give him my personal well wishes. Everywhere you look and everywhere you step in the Abbey there is likely to be someone’s remains so it pays to pay attention. The Abbey is also where all British monarchs save two since the time of the Norman conquest of 1066 (the last time Britain was successfully invaded by the way) have been crowned. History is quite literally thick here in so many ways.
Leaving the Abbey we would wander through St. James’s Park to reach the front gates of the Queen’s house, Buckingham Palace, which isn’t quite as grand as you might think, at least not architecturally in my opinion, although it certainly is big. Even the Queen doesn’t particularly like the place, preferring her residences in Windsor and in Scotland over Buckingham whenever possible. We looped back around to come up through Trafalgar Square, replete with its monuments to Lord Admiral Nelson along with an enormous cross section of British citizenry since it was still a bit early for the more massive hordes of tourists yet to come.
Wandering London on Transit
For no other reason than because we could, we rode the District Line out to Wimbledon. It is nothing other than a London suburb, except when the tournament is on of course, but for that event you don’t actually go to Wimbledon anyway, instead you exit two stops earlier at Southfields. We also rode to Barking, because it didn’t seem reasonable to NOT visit a place with such a colorful name. Sadly, its name came from Anglo-Saxon Berecingas, meaning either “the settlement of the followers or descendants of a man called Bereca” or “the settlement by the birch trees.” In other words, the name has nothing really foolishly interesting behind it. The location has been chartered and noted since 666 however, so it has some serious history behind it. Because the name had appealed to Tim for its whimsicality when we were first riding the underground from Heathrow on the Piccadilly Line, we also visited Cockfosters in North London. The name has been recorded as far back as 1524, and is thought to be either the name of a family, or that of a house which stood on Enfield Chase. One suggestion is that it was “the residence of the cock forester (or chief forester).” We also stopped by Baker Street to see the reputed residence of Sherlock Holmes, which of course isn’t any more real than St. Mary Mead, but still it is a fun thing to do for a person who has read all of the Holmes stories and novels even if I am not obsessive about the details. Take note that there is SOMETHING about which Matthew is not obsessive.
Finally, we rode out to Amersham on the Metropolitan Line. The only reason we rode to Amersham, which is QUITE far mind you, was because it was quite far. It is the only station in Zone 9 of the transit system and my goal in going there was simply to use the London transit system with which I was so enamored to its fullest possible extent. Come to find out that Amersham is actually sort of an interesting place! Read all about it at: http://www.amersham.org.uk/
Charity in Piccadilly
It was becoming quite late at this point and we were anxious about where we might find dinner since the pasties acquired and eaten at Wimbledon were sort of wearing off. We decided to brave Piccadilly Circus since we knew that there would be eateries open late for the after theater crowds and we found a reasonable Indian place to settle in to for a quick dinner. We left back into the crowds to get back to the Underground station. Heading down the steps we encountered an apparently homeless man, fairly young, who was begging for spare change. Now, it is important to realize here that unlike in most any American city of any size, homelessness and panhandling is rare in London. In fact, this was only the second such person we had seen. What struck me about this young man was that he had no socks or shoes and the evening was cold. That, coupled with the visible state of his feet, which are often the first thing to go in those who are un-housed, caused me to be concerned. I am all too aware that homeless people struggle to acquire and then retain shoes since they tend to be the most expensive part of the wardrobe. They are valued for both protecting and warming the extremities and others will steal them from you. This is very true in prison as well where the ability to obtain and retain anything other than standard prison issue loafers or slip-on sneakers are signs of financial and political power.
At any rate, this man’s lack of socks bugged me. I have a drawer full of socks and could probably go almost a month without washing socks and I would still have an adequate supply. Hell, I have the luxury of having socks I don’t wear because I don’t like them and this guy had none. So, much to Tim’s surprise, I leaned against a vertical support beam in the Underground station, removed my shoes and my socks, put my shoes back on, and tromped back up the stairs to give the man my socks. He seemed pleased and gave me a “Brilliant!” in response which is the general British term of approbation.
For those of you who know me very well at all, you should be surprised that I would do this. I am not known for my random acts of kindness or charity, or at least I don’t think I am. And I am not naïve about the possibility that this guy’s backpack was full of socks and that being shoeless and sockless was just a ploy to gain sympathy and perhaps more drug or drinking money. I knew all that and I didn’t care. I realized that perhaps he would use the coins I gave him to get drunk or high and I didn’t care. If I lived on the streets of London I suspect I would rather be drunk or high too. My charity was unconditional, without strings, and without the ridiculous belief or hope that I was addressing or changing core issues in this person’s life by either giving or not giving him anything. He needed socks, I had socks, I gave him socks. Done. It was simple, the way I think charity should be. I didn’t hold out charity on the condition that he change his drinking behaviors, his drug use behaviors, his housing situation, his political or religious beliefs, his educational status, in fact, I don’t know anything about those aspects of this person and I didn’t care. He might be completely sober with a PhD for all I know. That wasn’t the point of the charity. To me, charity shouldn’t be couched behind conditions like coming to a specific church service or attending some class where I try to mold you to do things my way, or held out as bribery so that you won’t have the abortion you really should have since nothing I do will enable you to actually parent a child. Charity to me is simply the giving of something needed from someone who has it to someone who needs it. The exchange ends there in my mind if true charity is the goal. If the goal is indoctrination or conversion, then call it that and at least be honest with yourself and those you claim to serve instead of using nice terms to hide your real intentions.
Take careful note of how Websters defines charity and I think you will see my point about it being selfless and not motivated by change or actions on the part of the recipients.
1: benevolent goodwill toward or love of humanity
2: generosity and helpfulness especially toward the needy or suffering
I think my humble and straightforward gift of socks meets this simple definition, but I have to also say that I don’t think that most agencies and programs that call themselves charitable meet it at all, ridden as they are with agendas, plans, and hoops for others to jump through. If you really want to help people it needn’t be complicated, just give to those in need what they need. Understand that you might be taken advantage of, you might be scammed, and those people you help might continue in behaviors that you don’t approve of, but if your goal is actually charity, DEFINITIONALLY, you shouldn’t care. Your only care should be to express goodwill and to be generous to those in need and who suffer. That doesn’t require classes, church attendance, and nor does it require that 60 to 70 cents of every dollar given go to pay the inflated administrative salaries of those who don’t actually provide direct charity, such as happens with the much ballyhooed Red Cross among other so called aid and development agencies. I honestly believe that if we as people rethought what we mean by charity and took the act out of the many hands that profit by our innate desire to help that we could make the world a new and better place.
To be clear, I don’t think my act of giving makes me a better or greater person than another. Instead I think it makes me at most a more honest person, one who is honest about what my motives were in the act of giving, a person who doesn’t want or need anything or any action in return from the recipient of my charity, and a person who believes that even those who don’t live or behave exactly as I would are still worthy and deserving of my human kindness without my accruing a reward. And maybe it ties in to that visit to St. Martin’s in the Fields after all, because St. Martin of Tours is most known for having torn his military cloak in two to provide half to a cold beggar he once encountered. The miracles that supposedly came from that action are irrelevant, what matters is Martin’s core action and the similarity to my own.
Back Home and Just Rewards
Perhaps that is odd note on which to end a narrative ostensibly about a journey to London, but that is the way it happened. Our return flight was on-time and completely uneventful, which was a relief since over the weekend there had been further air traffic delays associated with the Iceland volcano. I returned to Atlanta and to home refilled with a wondrous sense of history and a renewed love for the city on the Thames, precious mental commodities that helped carry me through two weeks of the parting gift London gave to me: an influenza infection!