My month in Europe began with ten days in London. Since I tried, not too successfully, to do this trip on the cheap, I stayed at the London School of Economics' High Holborn Student Residence. While my room rated zero for charm, and I shared the bathroom facilities with three others, for a single with kitchen privileges in central London it would be hard to beat the price: 30 pounds a night, with the British Museum five minutes north, Soho five minutes west and Covent Garden and the river five minutes south. Unfortunately this deal is only available mid June to September, although some of the other student halls are open for the Christmas and Easter breaks.
I flew via Detroit on Northwest -- lousy food and no space, but we arrived early. Killing time before check-in at the hostel I wandered towards Covent Garden in search of lunch, and in addition to an OK sandwich, a good street musicianand great people-watching, I was stunned to encounter the afore-mentioned rickshaw. The seat was wider and the bicycle sturdier than those in Asia, but for a minute I thought I had arrived in the wrong city.
I've seen the 'must-see' sights in London several times, traveling with first-timers: for this trip I had in mind theaters, lesser-known museums and nostalgic eating. Theaters and food do push the costs up, although the theaters in London can be dirt cheap compared to the US -- just 10 pounds a seat this year at the National. I saw five plays: On Your Toes (ballet as farce, but a lot of fun), Democracy (Michael Frayn of 'Noises Off' being serious about German politics -- clever bi-level scenery and some good lines, but too self-conscious to be absorbing), Bombay Dreams (the sets and costumes made me nostalgic for India, but the overloud music and plot were forgettable), the Reduced Shakespeare Company's latest, 'Bible' (really, really funny, but no doubt a fundamentalist would be furious) and His Girl Friday (good acting).
As with pubs and restaurants, London has a prodigal supply of museums, and I had only seven days (I was in London for ten days, but I spent the first afternoon sleeping off jet-lag, and Saturday and Sunday visiting my sisters). I did stop by the British Museum, but only for a lecture on the 'Way of Tea' and a just-opened exhibition of Tibetan thangkas -- both excellent. I've never been very fond of the BM -- I always seem to get lost among the Egyptians and Assyrians, although the new Great Court has greatly improved matters. My favorite big museum is the V&A (Victoria and Albert -- arts and crafts) -- a couple of visits ago I spent an entire morning in the permanent collection of dress through the ages. But this time I went for period interiors, Chinese porcelain and the National Portrait Gallery.
Although I grew up in Britain this was my first visit to the NPG and I was disappointed to find the Tudor Gallery closed -- no Elizabeth! I have to tell you, you can skip the NPG, unless you are really interested in British history, or perhaps British literature -- there was, for example, a full-length Byron looking impossibly Byronic, flanked by a worried Percy Shelley to his left and an utterly charming Mary Shelley ('Frankenstein') to his right. Aside from a few Lawrence's (notably an arresting sketch/portrait of the abolitionist leader, William Wilberforce), the pictures were obviously chosen for their subjects, not their execution. I found the self-consciously non-photographic moderns particularly unsatisfying, and consoled myself with a trip round the corner to the medieval wing of the National Gallery. While all those Madonnas can get cloying, I love the bright colors and tiny background landscapes.
Just north of the BM, at the edge of Gordon Square, I spent a happier afternoon at the Percival David Foundation -- three floors of superb Chinese porcelain -- 1,700 pieces from the 10th - 18th centuries, some from imperial collections and some with important inscriptions. My favorite was a rare Ru vase, one of the very earliest pieces -- I prefer the early monochromes to the later blue-and-whites, although there were some pieces of famille vert that I liked. This (free) museum, claiming 'the finest collection of Chinese porcelain outside China' should be on the must-see list.
Another lesser-known museum I loved was further out, in Shoreditch -- the Geffrye, housed in a range of 18th century alms houses. The facade, ivy-covered brick pierced by sash windows and blue doors, is unchanged, but the inside is now a series of rooms with furniture and fittings from twelve distinct periods, starting in 1580. When the Ironmongers Company moved its pensioners out to the country in 1911, the local council established the museum as a reference collection for the area's furniture makers, and the furniture was particularly well-labelled. I found the graphic illustration of the changes in taste fascinating -- although a reproduction of a Tudor chair demonstrated that the early rooms would have been much brighter originally -- all that dark oak started out quite pale. Outside, the rooms are matched by a series of period gardens, including a well-stocked herb garden and an Elizabethan knot garden.
The Dennis Severs House in Folgate Street is also in Shoreditch, and also worth the trip to Liverpool Street Station. Although open in daylight hours two Sundays and Mondays a month, the time to see this house is on a Monday evening, in silence, by candlelight and firelight (yes, real flames). The conceit is that you have entered the home of the Jarvis family, who have departed each room just before you -- leaving a wig here, a half-eaten scone there, a rumpled bed upstairs. Clocks tick, floor-boards creak and a sweet spicy smell emanates from the parlor. Dennis Severs (and his neighbors) must have had enormous fun tracking down the furniture, china, clothes and pictures, writing letters and arranging rooms.
You ascend from the nearly complete darkness of the basement kitchen, through the elegant parlors and bedrooms of the next three floors, to the cobwebby, leaky garret rented out to a poor family of silk weavers. The only off-note for me was that not all the rooms were of the same period -- on one floor were notices for Victoria's coronation, on another her Silver Jubilee was announced -- but I do recommend the experience. It's worth it just to realize what it was like to live by candlelight, but it can also be much more.
Finally, in accord with family tradition, my younger sister and I visited a stately home, in this case Basildon Park. (Stately home: a country house, opened to the public by its aristocratic (or sometimes not-so-aristocratic) owners to help pay death-duties and upkeep.) Built in the late 17th century and now owned by the National Trust, Basildon Park offered intricate plaster work, elegant furniture and interesting fabrics, along with two more unusual rooms -- the Shell and Sutherland rooms. The Shell room is, as you might suppose, full of shells, but shells arranged, with surprising success, to form pictures, covering all four walls. In contrast, the Sutherland room contains a number of the detailed sketches Graham Sutherland produced as he designed the massive tapestry that forms the altarpiece of Coventry Cathedral -- rebuilt after the war in controversially modern style.
I recently encountered a quotation to the effect that one of the pleasures of a vacation (holiday ) is watching others work. Although not really my intention, I found myself doing just that in three different places.
My first full day in London I had planned to attend a sale at Christies -- of Asian Decorative Arts. My travel notes said Christies was at the Old Brompton Road in South Kensington, my guide book said King Street in Mayfair, which sounded more likely and allowed me to wander through clubland on the way. However, the sale I wanted was not in the elegant Mayfair location, but in a functional, metal-pillared basement in South Ken. A scattering of dealers with catalogs and numbered bidding cards occupied the hard chairs, three people answered phones to one side and the young auctioneer stood at a polished wooden podium with a small gavel.
If I had been in a buying mood I could actually have afforded many of the lots -- one wooden box went for over 2,000 pounds, but everything else fetched under 1,000. One lot of eight snuff bottles, for example, went for only 200 pounds. The auctioneer did not chant 'going, going, gone,' but 'selling at ..., sold,' identifying the location of the buyer. It was all very understated and everyday.
The murder trial I watched at the Old Bailey was equally understated. The courtroom was paneled but new, the gilded coat of arms above the judge gleaming. The judge, in a high-backed chair on a raised platform, the clerk of court below him and the first row of three barristers were in wigs, bands and gowns, but the second row of lawyers at the green-topped tables wore normal clothes. The accused, in suit and tie, sat behind glass opposite the judge, a row of empty chairs between him and the lone woman guard. The jury, four men and eight women, sat in two rows to the judge's right, the witness, who I could barely hear, to his left. It appeared that a man had been knifed to death in the witness's flat, without him noticing either the murder or his friend's subsequent non-appearance, but the proceedings were anything but sensational -- just a quiet succession of questions and answers, not even an objection.
Things were a little livelier at the House of Commons, where my friend Dana (who joined me for my last few days in London) and I spent a rainy afternoon. A spirited defense by the appropriate Minister (think Secretary of the DHHS) concluded the first debate, on old age care, but the opposition spokesman opening the following debate on Iraq and the UN was surprisingly deferential to Foreign Minister Jack Straw, sitting across the table. The chamber looked just as it does on TV (you can catch the Prime Minister's question time, which we missed, on C-SPAN at 9:00 p.m. on Sundays.)
Wednesday morning at Buckingham Palace, Wednesday afternoon at Westminster -- just a short stroll down Birdcage Walk, but all the glamor at one end and all the power at the other. By the time Buckingham House became Buckingham Palace, Magna Carta, the Civil War and the Glorious Rebellion had transformed the monarchy from substance to show. Moving to the U.S. converted me to monarchism -- modern variety. I'd much rather have the glamor and deference accorded a head of state separated from the political power.
Dana loved Buckingham Palace, and I was more impressed than I expected, which is, after all, the intent. It was a little baroque for my taste, and I could have done without all the Sevres porcelain -- so overblown -- but I enjoyed the excellent plaster work and the special exhibition for the 50th anniversary of the coronation. The Queen's heavily embroidered gown and fur-edged train formed the centerpiece, but I was also pleased to see a replay of the black and white TV coverage. Although one of the newfangled machines was installed in a neighboring school for the occasion, I had to stay at home -- quarantined with the measles -- how old-fashioned that sounds.
The Queen's Gallery, in new quarters, offered da Vinci drawings and among some forgettable pictures, I loved a Vermeer, a Holbein and a Rembrandt. It seems my taste tends to the Dutch -- good thing I'm headed that way. A side room showcased a few large diamonds but the Crown Jewels are still in the Tower.
Traveling light and shopping are not compatible, not that I'm that fond of shopping anyway. But I couldn't ignore London's shops altogether, although the travel bookshops disappointed me. Looking for information on Central Asia for next year, all I found of use was one map. I indulged in upmarket window shopping in Burlington Arcade -- pearls and pashima on one side, and shoes and old maps on the other. Saturday morning I succumbed to nostalgia for the market on Portobello Road. Back in the Dark Ages when I lived in London (1968-70, shhh) my then boyfriend's father sold silver down the Portobello Road, and we often hung out with dealers at the pub on a Saturday. It looked the same, except that it was much busier, crammed with wall-to-wall people, tourists as shoppers. I overheard one seller comment on the Americans who had just paid her asking price in mixed cash (dollars and pounds). If you go, bargain. Also, the good stuff is up the top end, inside. Outside, many of the wares are things that would be cheaper in Asia, indoors they would be cheaper at auction. You need a quest for this kind of sightseeing, so I looked for a Georgian silver wine label, for port, but with no luck. Victorian port, or Georgian Hollands (gin) or claret (marked at 85 pounds, the seller started at 75, but I wasn't interested).
I received a special request to write about the food on this trip, so if you're not interested in food (is that possible?) just skip to the next section. Since I was intending (if not always succeeding) to economize I ate a fair number of sandwiches -- on the Thames-side terrace outside the Royal Festival Hall, under the limes in Bloomsbury Square, on the train to Reading to meet my sister. Marks and Sparks (Marks and Spencers) produced good sandwiches but Pret a Manger still has the best, despite the recent takeover by McDonalds. I recommend the crayfish and avocado -- so good I bought the same again at Heathrow for my flight to Brussels. One step up from sandwiches are sausage rolls -- a roll of sausage meat in puff pastry instead of a casing -- quality highly variable. The one I had for lunch at Kew Gardens was just adequate. Bangers and mash (sausages and mashed potatoes) in the Marquis of Granby pub near Westminster were a little better -- smooth potatoes and fairly tasty sausages, but the red onion gravy had a wholly deceptive appearance of deep flavor. A similar promise was better kept by the steak and mushroom pie (alas, no kidney) at Porters on Henrietta Street, although the puff pastry had risen to ridiculous heights. The mackerel pate that preceded the pie was even better -- tasting of fish without being fishy.
Ah, fish... I can't go to England without eating fish and chips. This time at a place out of the guide books called the Rock and Sole Plaice (conveniently round the corner from the Student Res. on Endell St.). One part old-fashioned chippy, one part tourist cute -- hanging flower baskets and colored lights around the outside tables, set on a seriously sloped piece of pavement. Crisp, golden batter, melting sweet plaice and hand-cut chips -- with salt and vinegar, of course -- tasted totally authentic, and since I once worked (for a whole week) in a fish and chip shop I feel qualified to judge. I did pass on the mushy peas (overcooked canned green peas) and ate cole slaw instead -- crisp cabbage, carrots, parsley and tangy mayo. Recommended.
Unfortunately, I can't altogether recommend the Spanish tapas place I ate at in Spitalfields, Meson Los Barilles (fitted in nicely after the Geffrye Museum). The whitebait was crisp and hot -- think divine fish sticks. (Whitebait are 1-2 inch long fish coated in a light batter and deep fried, then eaten whole). However, the mushroom and serrano ham was made with nicely chewy and salty ham but canned mushrooms.
Another must-eat for me in England is Indian food -- I am convinced, having eaten in both countries, that the average Indian restaurant in England is better than the average Indian restaurant in India -- although the Taj on Brick Lane wasn't that good. Brick Lane, handy for the Dennis Severs house, has become a center for Indian food. My chicken dansak (hot and sour with lentils) and mushroom bhaji were somewhat dry and under-spiced. But I also splurged at Chor Bizarre in Mayfair -- I had a card from the waiter at the New Delhi branch where I had eaten in November 2001. While most of the items on my thali were only average, the butter chicken flavored with brandy and strands of fresh ginger was to die for. The chicken tikka appetizer was also good -- nicely spiced and meltingly tender.
And, of course, afternoon tea -- I can't pass up scones and clotted cream. This time I indulged at the Orangery in Kensington Park -- elegant surroundings at much more reasonable prices than the posh hotels. Cream cheese and cucumber on crustless white bread -- tasteless. Scone with strawberry jam and cream -- delicious. Orange cake -- light and flavorful but I was full of scone.
A couple of more formal pre-theater dinners: Andrew Edmunds on Lexington St. in Soho -- smoked duck breast with mango and chili salsa and tender, rare lamb chops, good food in ordinary surroundings; Sarastro on Drury Lane -- cheese in filo pastry and chicken with raisins and orange sauce, good food in extra-ordinary surroundings. The owner of Sarastro is an opera buff and the diner is made to feel that she has strayed onto an opera set -- even the singers are there some nights.
Finally, unlike most visitors to London, I enjoyed home-cooked food at my sisters'-- home-made sausages and steak from the outside grill at Jackie and Pete's, trout (with head and bones), prawn quiche, fruit salad, at Pauline and Terry's.
While London, of course, has the Thames, its tributary rivers have long been covered over. Instead, man-made waterways are scattered through the parks, and canals were cut to carry freight before the arrival of railroads. At least three companies now offer canal boat trips between Little Venice and Campden Lock through the middle of London Zoo.
I chose Jason's Boats, traveling in a converted 1905 narrow boat with a well-informed pilot/guide. We motored slowly past other converted narrow boats, now used as houseboats, through the 248 meter-long Maida Vale tunnel, by old industrial areas and past new million-pound mansions, but the best parts were the weeping willows dipping into (Robert) Browning's Pool and the tree-lined stretch through Regent's Park.
Later, Dana and I took a regular boat up the Thames to Kew Gardens, cruising under a fine assortment of bridges, past high-price high-rises and flower-bedecked pubs. The tide was well out, and the exposed mud-banks surprisingly well-populated with ducks and seagulls and dignified grey herons.
The signature sights at Kew are the elegant old Palm House (with palm trees) and the functional new Princess of Wales Conservatory (with cacti and orchids), but this time I headed to the Bamboo Gardens and the Minto House (traditional Japanese). The low thatched house is surrounded by giant bamboo musical instruments -- wind chimes, a xylophone and an Indonesian anklung.
I walked back past the long lake, watching a duck scratching its ear, then down the tree-lined grassy walk called Syon View. On an overcast Thursday afternoon in September this was almost deserted -- I felt as if I were walking in my very own park. The huge old trees spread wide branches in welcome -- holm oaks and narrow-leaved ash, Chinese cedar and swamp cypress, common lime and Quercus Rotundiflora. After a wander through the roses --every shade from ivory to crimson and every stage from bud to hip, decorated with raindrops and visited by the occasional bee -- I finished in the rock garden. I love rock plants, low-growing, low-key mats of green with small pale flowers, natural bonsai.
I rode a bus part way back from Kew, but switched to the tube at Hammersmith. Most days, most times, there's no question that the tube (underground, metro) is the fastest way around London -- and the easiest. But you can't see much of London in a tunnel, and the buses are easier than they used to be. Most bus stops now have maps or lists of stops so you can at least start out in the right direction. Since a one-day or seven-day Travelcard gives unlimited tube and bus rides, finding you've overshot or are heading in the wrong direction (you are checking your map, right?) is no problem -- just get off and cross the street. I like to ride upstairs on the London buses for an up-close look at the statues and cornices, gables and balconies decorating the upper stories of the buildings.
Still, the best way to see London is to walk, whether with a route in mind, as I did the day I visited the Inns of Court (where the barristers -- lawyers who can appear in court -- hang out), or in search of serendipity. London never disappoints -- down that alley is the blue-and-gold sign for the Church of Scotland Crown Court ('The historic kirk of the Crown of Scotland in London'-- not a court), across that road is a shady square with benches and a fountain, and under that arch is Pied Bull Yard, home to classic cameras, old books and the Truckles cafe-bar.
Serendipity can strike even when you have a plan -- on my way to the Middle Temple I detoured into St. Clement's Dane, the Royal Air Force's church. Seemingly hundreds of squadron badges were embedded in the floor, faded blue battle banners hung in the galleries, and there were tributes to foreign forces -- USA and Poland, and Australia, New Zealand, India, Ceylon, Pakistan, Rhodesia -- names from the imperial past. The church, all white and gold, was redolent of World War II and the Battle of Britain, but also a reminder that troops were dying again -- one of the battle honors was for a previous campaign in Iraq.
I have left out so much -- the micro-mosaics, pietra dura and gold snuff boxes of the Gilbert Collection at the revamped Somerset House, saumon nicoise at the Cafe Rouge, the bus ride to Milton Keynes (the trains were canceled Sunday morning for track repairs), the pub walk through Knightsbridge...
I think it's true -- whoever is tired of London must be tired of life.
Originally sent from Bruges, Belgium, Sept. 16, 2003 and Maastricht, Holland, September 25, 2003
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