Tuesday, November 18, 2008
London

Now that my feet are capable of carrying me once again wherever my heart desires, my thoughts turn to my idea of an ideal London Day.

I’d saunter down High Holborn, turn left at Kingsway, dodging the frenzied commuters at the Tube station . I’d make my way to Covent Garden and spend a goodly hour browsing in the antiques shops of the Jubilee Market. Pausing to examine a Bakelite bracelet in ivory from the 1930s, I’d strain my ears to listen, then decipher the Cockney twang on the tongues of the dealers hustling in old watches, chipped china mugs, rusted medals and vintage necklaces. Then, because I know better than to part easily with hard-earned pounds, I’d beat a hasty retreat and walk along the cobbled by lanes in which Victorian horses once pranced towards the imposing columns of the Neo-Classical National Gallery.

I’d spend the better part of the next two hours studying Old Masters’ works in their carved and gilded frames forcing myself to decide whether I prefer the Medieval landscapes to the waterscapes of Monet. I’d take a break on the benches by the stone lions of Trafalgar Square to eat my homemade sandwiches stuffed with such proper British ingredients as Stilton Cheese and watercress or better yet Scottish Smoked Salmon.

Then, I’d pull out my book 24 Great Walks in London and pick out a particularly hidden corner of the city in which to lose myself in a labyrinth of narrow streets, smoky pubs, Anglican churches and square gardens whose flower-beds incredibly bloom with giant David Austin roses though seemingly neglected by all. I’d take pictures spontaneously of flowers spilling out of wrought-iron window boxes and fat pigeons foraging for crumbs in deserted alleys. Reading every blue plaque I pass by, I’d thrill in the knowledge that Dickens once strolled these streets or that Virginia Woolf dallied with her literary pals in a fragrant tea room.

At sundown, I’d get to the West End to pick out a drama by an easily recognizable name–perhaps Shaw or Shakespeare or David Mamet. When the curtain rises, I’d gasp because I can recognize each of the actors from the PBS TV series I watch in the States and I’d play a little game with myself to see how quickly I can recall which shows they were in and which roles they played.

Then, I would emerge on a darkened London evening under starry skies and disappear again into a historic old pub to down a swift half of their best draft beer while watching drunken lawyers in loosened ties play at darts against the backdrop of varnished mahogany bars.

Too exhausted to do much else, I’d lollop around my living room while catching the BBC’s last newscast for the night.

Come to think of it, before my feet protested, this was often my kind of London day.