A Divine Day of Diverse Delights–Dickens’ House, Lunch with Loulou,National Gallery, Pub Dinner with Dean’s Circle with
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
London
The cold still rages on–much to my annoyance, these mid-30 degree (Fahrenheit) temperatures are creeping up to mid-40s next week –after I have left London! Just my ill-founded luck! Still, I am dressing in warm cashmere layers to be comfortable outside only to boil when I am in the stores!
Jetlag seems a thing of the past and I was up at 7. 15 am this morning with enough leisurely time to shower, dress, have a muesli and yoghurt breakfast plus coffee and get on the Tube headed for Holborn to keep a doctor’s appointment. For my cold also still rages on. I decided I had better get my throat seen by someone as the pain is intense and this cold won’t quit. From Russel Square Station, I passed by some of London’s most fascinating attractions that I have had the pleasure, on previous occasions, of perusing: The Foundling Museum, Coram Fields (a lovely park into which adults can enter only if they have a child/children with them), the back streets of Holborn that so inspired Dickens. And indeed, that was where I was first headed. To say Hello to Charlie in his own parlour!
Visiting Dickens’ House:
I had first visited Dickens’ House in 1987, i.e. 28 years ago, as a young graduate student who had spent a great part of her life devouring his novels. In intervening years, I have stopped in the gift shop to buy gifts for various lovers of Dickens. But it was time, I decided to return to the rooms that he had inhabited with his wife Catherine and where she had borne two children–their first two daughters Kate and Alice, at a time when they were still happily married. Later, post-partum depression took its toll on her and their marriage crumbled. Dickens got involved with another woman and the couple divorced. It is easy to find the house in a long lane of modest terraced housing at 48 Doughty Street–it used to be literally in my own backyard when I had lived in Holborn; but I had not visited then.
A self-guided tour book is a handy tool as you go through the rooms. How the Victorians lived in such perpetual darkness is always a mystery to me. Still, there were flickering artificial candles in some of the rooms and they added to the authenticity of atmosphere that one seeks in such abodes. Having become prosperous through his writing, Dickens acquired a great many personal treasures and loads of them are exhibited in this house–sets of dining porcelain, a lovely Wedgwood tall cheese tray with lid in blue Jasperware, a silver samovar, a carved marble sculpture of a Turk. But the most significant items are his writing desk and chair that feature in the famous painting, Dickens’ Dream in which he is is seen snoozing in the chair as all the characters from his novels come to life. It is available in the form of a postcard in the shop. There are also letters, first editions of his novels (Nicholas Nickleby was written entirely in this house), much evidence of his great love for Shakespeare (whom he revered and who continually offered him inspiration), the theater (he saw a play in the West End almost every night and even turned his hand to acting to prove to be rather good at it), long walks (he is reputed to have walked an average of 20 miles a day all over the city).
The visitor goes through the Main Hall of the House, into the Drawing Room and Dining Room, then upstairs into the bedrooms (the one Dickens’ shared with Catherine, the other one in which his beloved sister-in-law Mary died unexpectedly at 21), then up another flight of stairs to the nursery and the servants rooms where a grill from Marshalsea Prison in a grim reminder of the earliest trauma he suffered. His father was imprisoned for debt and Dickens recalls the humiliation he felt on having to go to prison to visit him. This resulted in his earliest employment at age 12 in a shoe-blackening factory where passers-by could peep in and watch the children at work and giggle in amusement–not realizing how horrible it felt to the children hard at work. It was great to re-visit these well-known episodes in his life through the aid of such memorabilia and I lingered in room after room, taking pictures (without a flash), pausing to read a note here, to inspect a Victorian map of London there, to wonder at the prodigious talent and industry of this most British of writers.
Off to the Doctor and Persephone Books:
Thankfully, my doctor did not think anything was seriously wrong with me. Although I might have picked up the chest infection from air pollution in Bombay, he thinks I made it worse by picking up a virus in London where colds and sniffles are raging. All I was recommended was salt water gargles for my aching throat (slightly inflamed, he agreed) and more paracetymol. Relieved, I walked to one of my favorite places in London and my favorite bookstore in the whole wide world–Persephone Books on Lamb’s Conduit Street. The cozy warmth of this interior is hard to describe, the unique collections that they reprint (classics for women from the 1930s), the design of their productions (plain grey covered paperbacks with gorgeous end papers featuring contemporary fabric prints that come with matching bookmarks) and the gracious service you receive whenever you are there, make it worthwhile to hunt down this shop and buy something. I came away with a collection of book marks featuring floral prints in bright colors for 50 p each. I intend to give them away as gifts to my Book Club buddies.
An Unexpecdted Souvenir Find:
Then, I was hurrying out to keep my lunch date; but not before I got sidetracked by a foray into a design store–for somewhat inexplicably, Lamb’s Conduit Street has become increasingly gentrified. Rents are now going through this roof in this convenient part of Holborn and the huge thrift store (known as charity shop in Britain) that I used to frequent has, sadly, closed down. It’s been taken over by another upscale interior design establishment, so that it appears it won’t be long before Holborn becomes another Chelsea. In Penthreat and Hall, I chanced upon a huge wooden bowl filled with Christmas baubles being offered as a fraction of their regular price: I picked up two beautiful glass globes engraved and painted with gold and I can just see them catching the light in a corner of our home in Southport all year round. For under 10 pounds, it made a unique souvenir of my stay in London.
Lunch with Loulou:
When I finally did get on the Central Line Tube from Holborn, I got off at Holland Park within 12 minutes and easily found the new home of my friends Loulou and Paul–in whose palatial loft in Farringdon I had once passed a few months. They have downsized and, in a two bedroom flat, that overlooks Holland Hill Avenue, we had a lovely reunion. I said a quick hullo to Paul who then disappeared for his own luncheon business meeting, leaving Loulou to give me the grand tour of their charming little home which makes up in location what it has lost in size. Indeed, here I thought is another fine example of the wisdom of downsizing.
Loulou chose a fine Italian restaurant called Edeza on Holland Hill Avenue to treat me to lunch; and it was there, over gnocchi with rabbit ragout for me and breaded lemon sole for her, that we caught up. I realize, thanks to invitations and meetings with fond old friends, that I am eating at far better establishments on this trip than I had envisioned. Three days in a row it has been Italian and this meal did not disappoint. Most importantly, we had the chance to catch up on our lives in a far more meaningful way than email can allow. We made the discovery that, at this stage in our lives, it is our aging parents that are huge concerns and that there are no easy solutions for the provision of care for their well-being.
Haunting Holland Park Locations of As Time Goes By:
Regular readers of this blog will know that one of the great loves of my life is the British TV series As Time Goes By starring Judi Dench and Geoffrey Palmer and set in Holland Park. The series ran for about 12 years from the late 1980s to the early 2000s and featured the daily lives of an upper middle class couple that had once been engaged to be married, were parted by the war in Korea, go their separate ways, marry, have children, become widowed/divorced and meet up again 35 years later only to fall in love again, get married and live happily ever after. If this sounds corny to you, keep in mind that I am a hopeless romantic and am devoted to the show and have spent hours trying to find the real-life locations in which the shooting occurred.
So, imagine my delight, when I discovered that Loulou now lives about 2 seconds from the site of the filming of the show–the back gardens of Holland Park. I simply had to revisit them again–to see Lionel and Jean’s House, the church across the street in the park, the store front that had served as location of their office called Type For You–it was once the Clarendon Cross Post Office but became a discount convenience store that was actually closing down (I went in and bought Custard Powder for 50 p!) and the street across Holland Hill Avenue in Addison Street that had served as the location for Lionel’s flat. After having lingered long enough and feeling extremely nostalgic for the show that folded up, several years ago, I took a bus and rode on the top deck all the way along Hyde Park wit the idea of spending a few hours at another favorite place in the world–the National Gallery.
Saying Hello to Maggi Hambling and Other Old Friends at the National:
My bus deposited me at the last stop–Piccadilly Circus–and so off I strode past the Haymarket Theater and into Trafalgar Square. Revisiting the National Gallery is always a bit like coming home and saying Hello to my favorite friends. Only this time, I decided to see the special exhibition on at the moment: Maggi Hambling’s Walls of Water. I had first become introduced to the work of this extremely eccentric lady through my friends Loulou and Paul who know her through their connections in Suffolk. For the months that I had lived in their Farringdon loft, her self-portrait had hung right above my bed. It made me feel as if I knew her well. So it made complete sense to look at the work for which she had gained fame: her depictions of waves crashing on the Suffolk beaches around where she lives.
Indeed her canvasses are quite extraordinary–they are quite Pollock-like in some respects as thick wads of oil paint seem to be stuck randomly on the canvas. There is the sense of the definite movement of waves that burst into random patterns on shore. Black and white is relieved by slashes of occasional color. Interestingly, one of the works is entitled Amy Winehouse–it is Hambling’s tribute to another extraordinary artist–there is the definite depiction of Winehouse’s eccentric bouffants, her vivid red lipstick. Curatorial notes informed me that Hambling was inspired by the Norwegian artist Peter Balke who painted the sea in the 19th century. In many respects, her work is a response to Balke’s. And intriguingly, the National has presented a special exhibition on the work of Balke in the Sunley Room next door. I was thrilled. It was a wonderful opportunity to study the impact of one artist upon another. In Balke’s work, light played a prominent role and the vividness of detail that he is able to capture in his highly realistic canvasses–the very opposite of Hambling’s abstracts–are worth examining. I was enchanted.
It was time to go out in search of my old friends–beloved paintings that I get to see only occasionally but which I most love about re-visiting London. I began with the Carravaggios–Boy Bitten By A Lizard, Christ at Emmaus, then moved on to the classics that Marina Vaisey numbers among her 100 Masterpieces of Art: Canaletto’s scenes of Venice (more realistic than any photograph), Lucus Cranach’s Cupid Complaining to Venus, Holbien’s The Ambassadors, Pieter de Hooch’s Courtyard of a House in Delft (my very favorite painting in the whole world and one I could sit and gaze upon for hours), George Stubb’s Whistlejacket (was ever a horse depicted in more animated a guise?), Constable’s Haywain and Stafford Mill, Turner’s The Fighting Temeraire, Mr and Mrs. Thomas Hallet by Gainsborough and poor Lady Jane Grey. There are the lovely studies by Joaquim Buechler that have a whole corridor-gallery devoted to them–I could also gaze on these forever. So many treasures, so little time. I did not get the chance to enter the Sainsbury Wing, for instance, to look at the work of Carlo Crivelli (whom I discovered at the National many years ago and whose work I have seen no where else); but I hope to return for another peep again before I leave.
Outside, in Trafalgar Square, darkness had fallen and there was a lively lights show that was projecting rainbows over the fountains and Edward Landseer’s lions. It made for wonderful photo ops and all the world was taking selfies. It was at this time that I received a call from another friend: Murali, a banker who was just getting off work in Liverpool Street and wondered if I could meet him for a drink.
I could, actually, as I had nixed my plans to return to St. John’s Wood to change before dinner. I was exhausted and could not face the thought of making double journeys. Thankfully, I had not worn jeans or sneakers; so my clothing would pass as ‘semi-formal’, I figured. I was tired and flagging by this time and badly needed a sit down. Yes, I told Murali, I would meet him at Bank, presuming that my dinner appointment was there as the address I had been given said Old Bank of England.
About 45 minutes later, I found Murali awaiting my arrival by the Jubilee Monument just behind the equestrian statue of the Duke of York. It was fabulous to see him again and although I would have preferred a hot chocolate at that point, it seemed that most coffee shops close by 6 pm in London! So we settled for a pint instead at the Pavillion’s End pub somewhere in the labyrinth of little lanes that comprise The City in the area of Wren’s St. Stephen Woolnoth Church. Luckily, we did find seats and with half-pints of cider in our possession, we were off and away discussing all the things we talk about when we get together: travels in India, books, poetry, paintings and art history (my friend has a passion for Russian Abstract artists), discovering and re-discovering London…the list is endless. Murali is great company for his mind is vital, current, art-humanities-commerce-science wired (if that is possible)–indeed a true Renaissance Man who became known to me through his reading of my blog, when I lived in London. We have remained friends ever since and it is always a pleasure to catch up with him.
Making a Big Gaff Over a Dinner Venue:
Then, I was ready for the next item on my agenda: A Farewell Dinner for the Dean’s Circle of NYU at what I presumed was the actual Bank of England on Threadneedle Street. I am sure Murali had his doubts when I told him where I was headed for dinner–but then, I had presumed that august banks as as this one, rent out space for corporate dos as so many historic buildings seem to survive on such stunts.
Well, I was mighty mistaken. The dinner was not in the bank at all as the amused security assistant informed me…but, get this, in a pub named Bank of England on Fleet Street! I felt both mortified at my gaff and terribly anxious–I would be terribly late. Still, some quick thinking on Murali’s part sent me in the direction of the Chancery Lane Tube Station. I walked through the lane and onto Fleet Street and found myself facing Number 17. Well, since my address said 194 Fleet Street, I expected it to be in the direction of Ludgate Hill and, instinctively, I hailed a passing cab and jumped in. He sailed up and down the street a couple of times and then told me that the pub was probably exactly where I had hopped on! I was made to feel stupid for the second time in half an hour–this was simply not working! He U-turned and dropped me back exactly where I had hopped in, relieved me of 5 pounds and left me feeling sheepish as I entered the vast hall. I recognized it immediately as the venue that became notorious for the demon Barber of Fleet Street who apparently slit the throats of his customers and had his mistress then cut them up and bake them into pies in the sale of which she did roaring business! Well, who knows how much truth there is in this story, but I sure as hell wasn’t ordering pie!
We had the special room and thankfully too–for 30 Americans can get very noisy indeed. A three-course meal was served consisting of Tomato Soup, Fish and Chips (delightfully crisp cod fillets) with cheesecake for dessert. A slash of raspberry coulis appeared like a smear of blood on the plate and brought conversation inevitable around to the barber!
It was fun. It was lively. It was noisy. I was pleased to have been invited to bid goodbye to our students whose grand London adventure will end tomorrow morning when they board that flight back Stateside. I was seriously exhausted and could not wait to get public transport to reach home. I walked all the way up Kingsway to Holborn Tube station, got off at Marble Arch from where I took a bus home to St. John’s Wood getting there in under half an hour.
And while our students are dreaming of their return home, I fell asleep thinking of dreaming spires, for I will be in Oxford tomorrow with friends on a day trip that promises to be a blast.
Until tomorrow, cheerio!
A Divine Day of Diverse Delights–Dickens’ House, National Gallery, Meetings with Friends, Pub Dinner with Dean’s Circle
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
London
The cold still rages on–much to my annoyance, these mid-30 degree (Fahrenheit) temperatures are creeping up to mid-40s next week –after I have left London! Just my ill-founded luck! Still, I am dressing in warm cashmere layers to be comfortable outside only to boil when I am in the stores!
Jetlag seems a thing of the past and I was up at 7. 15 am this morning with enough leisurely time to shower, dress, have a muesli and yoghurt breakfast plus coffee and get on the Tube headed for Holborn to keep a doctor’s appointment. For my cold also still rages on. I decided I had better get my throat seen by someone as the pain is intense and this cold won’t quit. From Russel Square Station, I passed by some of London’s most fascinating attractions that I have had the pleasure, on previous occasions, of perusing: The Foundling Museum, Coram Fields (a lovely park into which adults can enter only if they have a child/children with them), the back streets of Holborn that so inspired Dickens. And indeed, that was where I was first headed. To say Hello to Charlie in his own parlour!
Visiting Dickens’ House:
I had first visited Dickens’ House in 1987, i.e. 28 years ago, as a young graduate student who had spent a great part of her life devouring his novels. In intervening years, I have stopped in the gift shop to buy gifts for various lovers of Dickens. But it was time, I decided to return to the rooms that he had inhabited with his wife Catherine and where she had borne two children–their first two daughters Kate and Alice, at a time when they were still happily married. Later, post-partum depression took its toll on her and their marriage crumbled. Dickens got involved with another woman and the couple divorced. It is easy to find the house in a long lane of modest terraced housing at 48 Doughty Street–it used to be literally in my own backyard when I had lived in Holborn; but I had not visited then.
A self-guided tour book is a handy tool as you go through the rooms. How the Victorians lived in such perpetual darkness is always a mystery to me. Still, there were flickering artificial candles in some of the rooms and they added to the authenticity of atmosphere that one seeks in such abodes. Having become prosperous through his writing, Dickens acquired a great many personal treasures and loads of them are exhibited in this house–sets of dining porcelain, a lovely Wedgwood tall cheese tray with lid in blue Jasperware, a silver samovar, a carved marble sculpture of a Turk. But the most significant items are his writing desk and chair that feature in the famous painting, Dickens’ Dream in which he is is seen snoozing in the chair as all the characters from his novels come to life. It is available in the form of a postcard in the shop. There are also letters, first editions of his novels (Nicholas Nickleby was written entirely in this house), much evidence of his great love for Shakespeare (whom he revered and who continually offered him inspiration), the theater (he saw a play in the West End almost every night and even turned his hand to acting to prove to be rather good at it), long walks (he is reputed to have walked an average of 20 miles a day all over the city).
The visitor goes through the Main Hall of the House, into the Drawing Room and Dining Room, then upstairs into the bedrooms (the one Dickens’ shared with Catherine, the other one in which his beloved sister-in-law Mary died unexpectedly at 21), then up another flight of stairs to the nursery and the servants rooms where a grill from Marshalsea Prison in a grim reminder of the earliest trauma he suffered. His father was imprisoned for debt and Dickens recalls the humiliation he felt on having to go to prison to visit him. This resulted in his earliest employment at age 12 in a shoe-blackening factory where passers-by could peep in and watch the children at work and giggle in amusement–not realizing how horrible it felt to the children hard at work. It was great to re-visit these well-known episodes in his life through the aid of such memorabilia and I lingered in room after room, taking pictures (without a flash), pausing to read a note here, to inspect a Victorian map of London there, to wonder at the prodigious talent and industry of this most British of writers.
Off to the Doctor and Persephone Books:
Thankfully, my doctor did not think anything was seriously wrong with me. Although I might have picked up the chest infection from air pollution in Bombay, he thinks I made it worse by picking up a virus in London where colds and sniffles are raging. All I was recommended was salt water gargles for my aching throat (slightly inflamed, he agreed) and more paracetymol. Relieved, I walked to one of my favorite places in London and my favorite bookstore in the whole wide world–Persephone Books on Lamb’s Conduit Street. The cozy warmth of this interior is hard to describe, the unique collections that they reprint (classics for women from the 1930s), the design of their productions (plain grey covered paperbacks with gorgeous end papers featuring contemporary fabric prints that come with matching bookmarks) and the gracious service you receive whenever you are there, make it worthwhile to hunt down this shop and buy something. I came away with a collection of book marks featuring floral prints in bright colors for 50 p each. I intend to give them away as gifts to my Book Club buddies.
An Unexpecdted Souvenir Find:
Then, I was hurrying out to keep my lunch date; but not before I got sidetracked by a foray into a design store–for somewhat inexplicably, Lamb’s Conduit Street has become increasingly gentrified. Rents are now going through this roof in this convenient part of Holborn and the huge thrift store (known as charity shop in Britain) that I used to frequent has, sadly, closed down. It’s been taken over by another upscale interior design establishment, so that it appears it won’t be long before Holborn becomes another Chelsea. In Penthreat and Hall, I chanced upon a huge wooden bowl filled with Christmas baubles being offered as a fraction of their regular price: I picked up two beautiful glass globes engraved and painted with gold and I can just see them catching the light in a corner of our home in Southport all year round. For under 10 pounds, it made a unique souvenir of my stay in London.
Lunch with Loulou:
When I finally did get on the Central Line Tube from Holborn, I got off at Holland Park within 12 minutes and easily found the new home of my friends Loulou and Paul–in whose palatial loft in Farringdon I had once passed a few months. They have downsized and, in a two bedroom flat, that overlooks Holland Hill Avenue, we had a lovely reunion. I said a quick hullo to Paul who then disappeared for his own luncheon business meeting, leaving Loulou to give me the grand tour of their charming little home which makes up in location what it has lost in size. Indeed, here I thought is another fine example of the wisdom of downsizing.
Loulou chose a fine Italian restaurant called Edeza on Holland Hill Avenue to treat me to lunch; and it was there, over gnocchi with rabbit ragout for me and breaded lemon sole for her, that we caught up. I realize, thanks to invitations and meetings with fond old friends, that I am eating at far better establishments on this trip than I had envisioned. Three days in a row it has been Italian and this meal did not disappoint. Most importantly, we had the chance to catch up on our lives in a far more meaningful way than email can allow. We made the discovery that, at this stage in our lives, it is our aging parents that are huge concerns and that there are no easy solutions for the provision of care for their well-being.
Haunting Holland Park Locations of As Time Goes By:
Regular readers of this blog will know that one of the great loves of my life is the British TV series As Time Goes By starring Judi Dench and Geoffrey Palmer and set in Holland Park. The series ran for about 12 years from the late 1980s to the early 2000s and featured the daily lives of an upper middle class couple that had once been engaged to be married, were parted by the war in Korea, go their separate ways, marry, have children, become widowed/divorced and meet up again 35 years later only to fall in love again, get married and live happily ever after. If this sounds corny to you, keep in mind that I am a hopeless romantic and am devoted to the show and have spent hours trying to find the real-life locations in which the shooting occurred.
So, imagine my delight, when I discovered that Loulou now lives about 2 seconds from the site of the filming of the show–the back gardens of Holland Park. I simply had to revisit them again–to see Lionel and Jean’s House, the church across the street in the park, the store front that had served as location of their office called Type For You–it was once the Clarendon Cross Post Office but became a discount convenience store that was actually closing down (I went in and bought Custard Powder for 50 p!) and the street across Holland Hill Avenue in Addison Street that had served as the location for Lionel’s flat. After having lingered long enough and feeling extremely nostalgic for the show that folded up, several years ago, I took a bus and rode on the top deck all the way along Hyde Park wit the idea of spending a few hours at another favorite place in the world–the National Gallery.
Saying Hello to Maggi Hambling and Other Old Friends at the National:
My bus deposited me at the last stop–Piccadilly Circus–and so off I strode past the Haymarket Theater and into Trafalgar Square. Revisiting the National Gallery is always a bit like coming home and saying Hello to my favorite friends. Only this time, I decided to see the special exhibition on at the moment: Maggi Hambling’s Walls of Water. I had first become introduced to the work of this extremely eccentric lady through my friends Loulou and Paul who know her through their connections in Suffolk. For the months that I had lived in their Farringdon loft, her self-portrait had hung right above my bed. It made me feel as if I knew her well. So it made complete sense to look at the work for which she had gained fame: her depictions of waves crashing on the Suffolk beaches around where she lives.
Indeed her canvasses are quite extraordinary–they are quite Pollock-like in some respects as thick wads of oil paint seem to be stuck randomly on the canvas. There is the sense of the definite movement of waves that burst into random patterns on shore. Black and white is relieved by slashes of occasional color. Interestingly, one of the works is entitled Amy Winehouse–it is Hambling’s tribute to another extraordinary artist–there is the definite depiction of Winehouse’s eccentric bouffants, her vivid red lipstick. Curatorial notes informed me that Hambling was inspired by the Norwegian artist Peter Balke who painted the sea in the 19th century. In many respects, her work is a response to Balke’s. And intriguingly, the National has presented a special exhibition on the work of Balke in the Sunley Room next door. I was thrilled. It was a wonderful opportunity to study the impact of one artist upon another. In Balke’s work, light played a prominent role and the vividness of detail that he is able to capture in his highly realistic canvasses–the very opposite of Hambling’s abstracts–are worth examining. I was enchanted.
It was time to go out in search of my old friends–beloved paintings that I get to see only occasionally but which I most love about re-visiting London. I began with the Carravaggios–Boy Bitten By A Lizard, Christ at Emmaus, then moved on to the classics that Marina Vaisey numbers among her 100 Masterpieces of Art: Canaletto’s scenes of Venice (more realistic than any photograph), Lucus Cranach’s Cupid Complaining to Venus, Holbien’s The Ambassadors, Pieter de Hooch’s Courtyard of a House in Delft (my very favorite painting in the whole world and one I could sit and gaze upon for hours), George Stubb’s Whistlejacket (was ever a horse depicted in more animated a guise?), Constable’s Haywain and Stafford Mill, Turner’s The Fighting Temeraire, Mr and Mrs. Thomas Hallet by Gainsborough and poor Lady Jane Grey. There are the lovely studies by Joaquim Buechler that have a whole corridor-gallery devoted to them–I could also gaze on these forever. So many treasures, so little time. I did not get the chance to enter the Sainsbury Wing, for instance, to look at the work of Carlo Crivelli (whom I discovered at the National many years ago and whose work I have seen no where else); but I hope to return for another peep again before I leave.
Outside, in Trafalgar Square, darkness had fallen and there was a lively lights show that was projecting rainbows over the fountains and Edward Landseer’s lions. It made for wonderful photo ops and all the world was taking selfies. It was at this time that I received a call from another friend: Murali, a banker who was just getting off work in Liverpool Street and wondered if I could meet him for a drink.
I could, actually, as I had nixed my plans to return to St. John’s Wood to change before dinner. I was exhausted and could not face the thought of making double journeys. Thankfully, I had not worn jeans or sneakers; so my clothing would pass as ‘semi-formal’, I figured. I was tired and flagging by this time and badly needed a sit down. Yes, I told Murali, I would meet him at Bank, presuming that my dinner appointment was there as the address I had been given said Old Bank of England.
About 45 minutes later, I found Murali awaiting my arrival by the Jubilee Monument just behind the equestrian statue of the Duke of York. It was fabulous to see him again and although I would have preferred a hot chocolate at that point, it seemed that most coffee shops close by 6 pm in London! So we settled for a pint instead at the Pavillion’s End pub somewhere in the labyrinth of little lanes that comprise The City in the area of Wren’s St. Stephen Woolnoth Church. Luckily, we did find seats and with half-pints of cider in our possession, we were off and away discussing all the things we talk about when we get together: travels in India, books, poetry, paintings and art history (my friend has a passion for Russian Abstract artists), discovering and re-discovering London…the list is endless. Murali is great company for his mind is vital, current, art-humanities-commerce-science wired (if that is possible)–indeed a true Renaissance Man who became known to me through his reading of my blog, when I lived in London. We have remained friends ever since and it is always a pleasure to catch up with him.
Making a Big Gaff Over a Dinner Venue:
Then, I was ready for the next item on my agenda: A Farewell Dinner for the Dean’s Circle of NYU at what I presumed was the actual Bank of England on Threadneedle Street. I am sure Murali had his doubts when I told him where I was headed for dinner–but then, I had presumed that august banks as as this one, rent out space for corporate dos as so many historic buildings seem to survive on such stunts.
Well, I was mighty mistaken. The dinner was not in the bank at all as the amused security assistant informed me…but, get this, in a pub named Bank of England on Fleet Street! I felt both mortified at my gaff and terribly anxious–I would be terribly late. Still, some quick thinking on Murali’s part sent me in the direction of the Chancery Lane Tube Station. I walked through the lane and onto Fleet Street and found myself facing Number 17. Well, since my address said 194 Fleet Street, I expected it to be in the direction of Ludgate Hill and, instinctively, I hailed a passing cab and jumped in. He sailed up and down the street a couple of times and then told me that the pub was probably exactly where I had hopped on! I was made to feel stupid for the second time in half an hour–this was simply not working! He U-turned and dropped me back exactly where I had hopped in, relieved me of 5 pounds and left me feeling sheepish as I entered the vast hall. I recognized it immediately as the venue that became notorious for the demon Barber of Fleet Street who apparently slit the throats of his customers and had his mistress then cut them up and bake them into pies in the sale of which she did roaring business! Well, who knows how much truth there is in this story, but I sure as hell wasn’t ordering pie!
We had the special room and thankfully too–for 30 Americans can get very noisy indeed. A three-course meal was served consisting of Tomato Soup, Fish and Chips (delightfully crisp cod fillets) with cheesecake for dessert. A slash of raspberry coulis appeared like a smear of blood on the plate and brought conversation inevitable around to the barber!
It was fun. It was lively. It was noisy. I was pleased to have been invited to bid goodbye to our students whose grand London adventure will end tomorrow morning when they board that flight back Stateside. I was seriously exhausted and could not wait to get public transport to reach home. I walked all the way up Kingsway to Holborn Tube station, got off at Marble Arch from where I took a bus home to St. John’s Wood getting there in under half an hour.
And while our students are dreaming of their return home, I fell asleep thinking of dreaming spires, for I will be in Oxford tomorrow with friends on a day trip that promises to be a blast.
Until tomorrow, cheerio!
Taking Tours–Royal Courts of Justice & Highgate Cemetery We Taking Tours: Royal Courts of Justice and Highgate Cemetery West st
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
London
I am kicking jetlag on its butt–slowly but surely. Awake today at 5.00 am, I used an hour or so to blog about my doings in the company of my young friend Jonas who has since then been forbidden to leave his bed to join me! Knowing how obedient he is, I feel half sorry that I will not have to contend with Scooby-doo upon awakening. Still, I had a chance to shower, eat my muesli and yoghurt breakfast and rush off to St. John’s Wood Tube station to hotfoot it to 8.00 am Mass at Westminster Cathedral where I was meeting my friend Reshma. She wanted to find out what a Catholic Mass was like and in the suitably awesome interior (recently refurbished to allow the Byzantine mosaics to glow softly), she had her first taste of daily ritual Mass although she felt slightly affronted that she could not receive “the offering” (Communion). This, somewhat unexpectedly, called for my best explanation for her exclusion. She loved the unique Byzantine design of the Catholic Cathedral (not to be confused with the far more famous Anglican Westminster Abbey down the same road).
Eager to catch up together, we fought the crowds flowing out in reverse direction from Victoria Station where, in Cafe Rouge, we had their 2.50 pound breakfast special: a beverage and a pastry (hot chocolate and a pain au chocolat for me; a latte and a plain croissant for her). As the mother of one of my favorite former students and someone I have discovered a little via email, there was so much more to learn about her–and we chattered non-stop. One hour and one selfie later, we were at the bus-stop heading for Fleet Street to cover the next item on our agenda: A Tour of the Royal Courts of Justice. It was only as we waited on a cruelly freezing morning for the Number 11 bus that took all of 12 minutes to arrive, that she informed me that she had a Law degree from India–although she had never practiced Law and had ended up in banking.
Sunshine flooded the city and Parliament Square glowed as we turned the corner into Whitehall. Alas, we did not have the front seat but we were content to spy some of London’s best-known landmarks: Big Ben, Nelson’s Column at Trafalgar (later in the day, I would see the grave at Highgate of the man who sculpted him, William Railton), Charing Cross, etc. We were early for our 11.00 am guided tour of the Royal Courts of Justice (given on Tuesdays, must be booked online) so popped into the Twinnings shop on the Strand that has been around since the 1700s. Alas, the tea tasting I had promised Reshma was not to happen as there was a corporate tasting event in session until 1.00 pm. Peeved, we were presented with sample sachets of tea by an apologetic assistance as we left.
Tour of the Royal Courts of Justice:
I might have passed the Royal Courts of Justice hundreds of times and have never known that they are open to the public. But, come to think of if it, in a democracy, courts are indeed open (except, ironically, when held “in camera”). This marvelous confection of turrets, towers, spires, crenallated rooflines and stained glass windows might well lead the viewer to believe that he/she is looking at a fancy palace or medieval court. In fact, it is a Victorian addition to Fleet Street, the architectural work of one George Street, pupil of the famous Gilbert Scott (whose marvelous work I had admired yesterday at St. Pancras Station).
Reshma and I went through Security screening, entered the august Main Hall with its brilliant tiled mosaic floor and grabbed a hold of one of the self-guided tour leaflets. For the next hour or so, we wove our way in and out of impressive chambers and court rooms along spotless marble clad corridors adorned with Gothic arches, casement windows, winding stone staircases, wooden carvings and panelling, etc. It was great fun to say hello to some of the greatest icons of the Law such as the “Fire Judges” who had listened to all cases pertaining to the destruction wrought by the Great Fire of London of 1666. Upstairs, we spent time in the court rooms where judges were actually hearing cases–it is fun to see the regalia that she prevails in British courts: the horsehair wigs, the flowing black robes, the stiff elongated collars. In fact, the reason I finally chose to tour the Royal Courts of Justice that Queen Victoria had inaugurated, was because they are featured in some of the most compelling TV law shows I have recently been watching. The exteriors are also featured frequently in high-profile law cases (such as the Madonna-Guy Ritchie Divorce). It is a wonderful thing for a foreign tourist to do: to get a real glimpse into the working of British jurisprudence for it is like live drama. The judges ask pointed questions, the advocates respond. A clerk is seen recording the proceedings. The court rooms are ornate. There is decoration everywhere. Some have high square tower-like ceilings. We enjoyed it all.
Also part and parcel of this tour is a visit to the Painted Room that adjoins a “Bear Garden”–a misnomer for no bear baiting actually went on there ever. The reference is to Queen Victoria who once visited the place, was shocked by the loud audible discussions of the lawyers and likened the din to a “bear garden”. The Painted Room is spectacular, its paint fresh and crisp as the day it was done. There are cells–holding cells where prisoners are kept, pending sentence but, of course, they are out of bounds of the general public. I loved the idea of being able to wander around at will, watching lawyers in consultation in the corridors (just as in the TV shows), anxious relatives milling around and whispering quietly. This is real-life drama–something we do not see in the flesh daily unless we are part of the legal system of a country. Tours end in the Costume Gallery where we saw legal robes and regalia through the ages in the British Isles. Costume is so intrinsic to the practice of Law globally that it was huge fun to see how much importance it was given as we viewed the most ornate robes ever. A tour of the Royal Courts of Justice is most heartily recommended. It is the perfect thing to do if one has Been There, Done Everything in London. In fact, if one has not done so already, one can wander towards the Inns of Court in neighboring Chancery where more architectural delights await and one can see where the plotting and planning goes on that is then played out among the lawyers and their clients in the Royal Courts. It was a morning truly well-spent. And the tours are free of charge.
Off to Highgate Cemetery for Another Tour:
It was time to bid Reshma goodbye. She had things to do and I had my tour to take, based on the one I had booked online. I hopped on to a bus going down the Strand, hopped off at Charing Cross from where I bought a Brunch threesome sandwich from M&S Food for my picnic lunch in the park and off I went on the Northern Line train to get off at Archway. It took me about 20 minutes and deposited me at Archway Station from where I got Bus 210 to Lauderdale Park/Waterlow (as instructed by the Highgate Cemetery website). It was a very pleasant walk through the park amidst dog walkers and robust dogs, past duck ponds that had the glaze of thin layers of ice on them–truly, the day was freezing. I could not have picked a worse one for my outdoor tour of the cemetery and, by the time it was over, my toes felt frostbitten.
It was time to eat my solitary lunch on a park bench and to take a breather before I proceeded to the gates of the Cemetery. I was early for my tour and able to to wander on to the East Side of the cemetery (where I had been before). Although here you do see high-profile graves such as those of Karl Marx (the most popular) and George Eliot, this is all you see–plus row upon row of Victorian mortuary sculpture featuring angels, urns, crosses. On the West Side (for which you need to book and pay), there is a guided tour given by a member of the Friends of Highgate Cemetery. This happened to be a very elderly woman who moved at snail’s pace, spoke in the softest voice that I had difficulty hearing and seemed out of breath rather frequently as she negotiated the hills of the property. All the time, she provided information on the space and its inhabitants. About 194,000 people are buried here in about 78,000 graves. Many graves contain only ashes but even buried ashes are placed in purchased plots that are carefully numbered. As long as one could pay for a burial and was from the Church of England, one had access to this site. Later, the C of E rules were relaxed and as long as you were Christian, you were allowed final resting in this spot.
The most famous recent burial was that of so-called Russian spy Alexander Litvinenko known as Sacha whose grave is fresh and nondescript but has a small early picture adorning it. As the family had requested that the public not take pictures, we refrained. There was a lot to learn as we trudged up a hill about mortuary emblems, the fact that symbols of one’s profession were sculpted facing downwards (because they will never be used again) and about burial conventions. But the true charm of taking and paying for a tour of the West side (although there are no really prominent names buried here–a clerk had once told me, years ago, “We do not do fame!”), is that you get to enter the Lebanon Circle where you see family vaults and finally get into the catacombs where lead-lined coffins that have worn with age can be seen very easily in the eerie darkness on shelves only a foot away. These, to my mind, are the best part of a visit here. You enter in pitch darkness and with the aid of a flashlight you see these shelves of coffins, some concealed behind a grave stone bearing a name, others exposed for all to see. There is evidence of grave robbing everywhere–not even in death were folks allowed to rest. We could not access some of the more famous graves–such as that of the Rossettis and Elizabeth Siddal who had moddelled for some of the most famous Pre-Raphelite paintings, as the path was too icy and closed off. The tour included tour graves that were crowned with extraordinary sculpture–one of a lion, another of a dog–the stories that accompanied them were just as fascinating. The lion belonged to a menagerist called George Someone, the dog to a bare fist fighter called Thomas Sawyer. They allowed us to pause and take in the eccentricities of the Victorians but, on such a freezing day, I would have restricted the tour to half its length.
Would I recommend such a tour to a visitor? If you do death, yes. If you have run out of things to do in London (almost an impossibility) yes, if you enjoy stories of strange people, yes. But, for Pete’s sake, make sure you choose a warmer day!
More Retail Therapy and Meeting Michelle:
Had it been a more pleasant day, I might have lingered in pretty Highgate Village and browsed through its shops. As it was, I could not wait to walk to the bottom of Swain’s Lane (about 8 minutes) from where I hopped into a C2 bus that took me past lovely corners of Northern London: Kentish Town and Camden before bringing me to Oxford Circus where I hopped off and nipped straight into Marks and Sparks for my supply of eats: Battenburg Cake and Fruity Flapjack Biscuits. Meanwhile, on the bus, my friend who conducts Civil Law for the British government, Michelle Misquita, had texted to find out if I had any time free to see her. After shopping, I sure did, because my next appointment was dinner with my NYU colleague and friend, Mahnaz. I finished buying my goodies, jumped back on the Tube to meet Michelle at St. James’ Park’s lovely Art Deco station with its Jacob Epstein sculpture all over the place, and then there I was having a lovely reunion with her and settling down for some hot chocolate at Pret a Manger nearby. Michelle and I were college classmates in Elphinstone College, Bombay, majoring in English, and had a very healthy rivalry for marks raging on between the two of us! It is always a joy to catch up with her and to hear about the goings-on in her life. We parted promising each other a reunion with the third member of our English Honors Threesome, Marie-Lou whome I had just met in Bombay visiting from Chicago, some time soon.
Dinner with Mahnaz:
And then it was time to make my way back to Mayfair to meet Mahnaz, my NYU colleague now on a sabbatical of sorts in London. She picked out an Italian eatery called Finos on North End Street behind the Primark store on Oxford Street and there she was, sipping a glass of red Vallipocelli as I walked in. She was starving; I had been nibbling and sipping hot drinks all day, but was ready to sink my teeth into a good salad. And that was what I ordered although she went for a gigantic burger. Goat cheese, pine nuts, assorted peppers and pesto adorned my salad and made it very tasty indeed as it was lightly dressed with balsamic vinegrette. A lovely dinner accompanied by a glass of Peroni, Italy’s very light beer. Despite having just passed a semester as colleagues in New York, Mahnaz and I had barely found the time to connect–we have to travel, it seems to other parts of thew world (Florence, Venice, London) to really sit and connect. We talked about future plans for research and publication and about personal issues and before we knew it, it was almost ten o clock and time to call it a night.
We went our separate ways–me, making the delightful discovery that she is a lodger for the next 9 months with Kate Buffrey, the actress who played the female lead in Trial and Retribution, the detective and courtroom drama that Llew and I had recently enjoyed! What a tiny world!
It was another day that was packed to capacity–as indeed all my days in London are. And at 11.00 pm, when I sank into bed, I fell asleep instantly.
Until tomorrow, cheerio!
Taking Tours–Royal Courts of Justice and Highgate Cemetery
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
London
I am kicking jetlag on its butt–slowly but surely. Awake today at 5.00 am, I used an hour or so to blog about my doings in the company of my young friend Jonas who has since then been forbidden to leave his bed to join me! Knowing how obedient he is, I feel half sorry that I will not have to contend with Scooby-doo upon awakening. Still, I had a chance to shower, eat my muesli and yoghurt breakfast and rush off to St. John’s Wood Tube station to hotfoot it to 8.00 am Mass at Westminster Cathedral where I was meeting my friend Reshma. She wanted to find out what a Catholic Mass was like and in the suitably awesome interior (recently refurbished to allow the Byzantine mosaics to glow softly), she had her first taste of daily ritual Mass although she felt slightly affronted that she could not receive “the offering” (Communion). This, somewhat unexpectedly, called for my best explanation for her exclusion. She loved the unique Byzantine design of the Catholic Cathedral (not to be confused with the far more famous Anglican Westminster Abbey down the same road).
Eager to catch up together, we fought the crowds flowing out in reverse direction from Victoria Station where, in Cafe Rouge, we had their 2.50 pound breakfast special: a beverage and a pastry (hot chocolate and a pain au chocolat for me; a latte and a plain croissant for her). As the mother of one of my favorite former students and someone I have discovered a little via email, there was so much more to learn about her–and we chattered non-stop. One hour and one selfie later, we were at the bus-stop heading for Fleet Street to cover the next item on our agenda: A Tour of the Royal Courts of Justice. It was only as we waited on a cruelly freezing morning for the Number 11 bus that took all of 12 minutes to arrive, that she informed me that she had a Law degree from India–although she had never practiced Law and had ended up in banking.
Sunshine flooded the city and Parliament Square glowed as we turned the corner into Whitehall. Alas, we did not have the front seat but we were content to spy some of London’s best-known landmarks: Big Ben, Nelson’s Column at Trafalgar (later in the day, I would see the grave at Highgate of the man who sculpted him, William Railton), Charing Cross, etc. We were early for our 11.00 am guided tour of the Royal Courts of Justice (given on Tuesdays, must be booked online) so popped into the Twinnings shop on the Strand that has been around since the 1700s. Alas, the tea tasting I had promised Reshma was not to happen as there was a corporate tasting event in session until 1.00 pm. Peeved, we were presented with sample sachets of tea by an apologetic assistance as we left.
Tour of the Royal Courts of Justice:
I might have passed the Royal Courts of Justice hundreds of times and have never known that they are open to the public. But, come to think of if it, in a democracy, courts are indeed open (except, ironically, when held “in camera”). This marvelous confection of turrets, towers, spires, crenallated rooflines and stained glass windows might well lead the viewer to believe that he/she is looking at a fancy palace or medieval court. In fact, it is a Victorian addition to Fleet Street, the architectural work of one George Street, pupil of the famous Gilbert Scott (whose marvelous work I had admired yesterday at St. Pancras Station).
Reshma and I went through Security screening, entered the august Main Hall with its brilliant tiled mosaic floor and grabbed a hold of one of the self-guided tour leaflets. For the next hour or so, we wove our way in and out of impressive chambers and court rooms along spotless marble clad corridors adorned with Gothic arches, casement windows, winding stone staircases, wooden carvings and panelling, etc. It was great fun to say hello to some of the greatest icons of the Law such as the “Fire Judges” who had listened to all cases pertaining to the destruction wrought by the Great Fire of London of 1666. Upstairs, we spent time in the court rooms where judges were actually hearing cases–it is fun to see the regalia that she prevails in British courts: the horsehair wigs, the flowing black robes, the stiff elongated collars. In fact, the reason I finally chose to tour the Royal Courts of Justice that Queen Victoria had inaugurated, was because they are featured in some of the most compelling TV law shows I have recently been watching. The exteriors are also featured frequently in high-profile law cases (such as the Madonna-Guy Ritchie Divorce). It is a wonderful thing for a foreign tourist to do: to get a real glimpse into the working of British jurisprudence for it is like live drama. The judges ask pointed questions, the advocates respond. A clerk is seen recording the proceedings. The court rooms are ornate. There is decoration everywhere. Some have high square tower-like ceilings. We enjoyed it all.
Also part and parcel of this tour is a visit to the Painted Room that adjoins a “Bear Garden”–a misnomer for no bear baiting actually went on there ever. The reference is to Queen Victoria who once visited the place, was shocked by the loud audible discussions of the lawyers and likened the din to a “bear garden”. The Painted Room is spectacular, its paint fresh and crisp as the day it was done. There are cells–holding cells where prisoners are kept, pending sentence but, of course, they are out of bounds of the general public. I loved the idea of being able to wander around at will, watching lawyers in consultation in the corridors (just as in the TV shows), anxious relatives milling around and whispering quietly. This is real-life drama–something we do not see in the flesh daily unless we are part of the legal system of a country. Tours end in the Costume Gallery where we saw legal robes and regalia through the ages in the British Isles. Costume is so intrinsic to the practice of Law globally that it was huge fun to see how much importance it was given as we viewed the most ornate robes ever. A tour of the Royal Courts of Justice is most heartily recommended. It is the perfect thing to do if one has Been There, Done Everything in London. In fact, if one has not done so already, one can wander towards the Inns of Court in neighboring Chancery where more architectural delights await and one can see where the plotting and planning goes on that is then played out among the lawyers and their clients in the Royal Courts. It was a morning truly well-spent. And the tours are free of charge.
Off to Highgate Cemetery for Another Tour:
It was time to bid Reshma goodbye. She had things to do and I had my tour to take, based on the one I had booked online. I hopped on to a bus going down the Strand, hopped off at Charing Cross from where I bought a Brunch threesome sandwich from M&S Food for my picnic lunch in the park and off I went on the Northern Line train to get off at Archway. It took me about 20 minutes and deposited me at Archway Station from where I got Bus 210 to Lauderdale Park/Waterlow (as instructed by the Highgate Cemetery website). It was a very pleasant walk through the park amidst dog walkers and robust dogs, past duck ponds that had the glaze of thin layers of ice on them–truly, the day was freezing. I could not have picked a worse one for my outdoor tour of the cemetery and, by the time it was over, my toes felt frostbitten.
It was time to eat my solitary lunch on a park bench and to take a breather before I proceeded to the gates of the Cemetery. I was early for my tour and able to to wander on to the East Side of the cemetery (where I had been before). Although here you do see high-profile graves such as those of Karl Marx (the most popular) and George Eliot, this is all you see–plus row upon row of Victorian mortuary sculpture featuring angels, urns, crosses. On the West Side (for which you need to book and pay), there is a guided tour given by a member of the Friends of Highgate Cemetery. This happened to be a very elderly woman who moved at snail’s pace, spoke in the softest voice that I had difficulty hearing and seemed out of breath rather frequently as she negotiated the hills of the property. All the time, she provided information on the space and its inhabitants. About 194,000 people are buried here in about 78,000 graves. Many graves contain only ashes but even buried ashes are placed in purchased plots that are carefully numbered. As long as one could pay for a burial and was from the Church of England, one had access to this site. Later, the C of E rules were relaxed and as long as you were Christian, you were allowed final resting in this spot.
The most famous recent burial was that of so-called Russian spy Alexander Litvinenko known as Sacha whose grave is fresh and nondescript but has a small early picture adorning it. As the family had requested that the public not take pictures, we refrained. There was a lot to learn as we trudged up a hill about mortuary emblems, the fact that symbols of one’s profession were sculpted facing downwards (because they will never be used again) and about burial conventions. But the true charm of taking and paying for a tour of the West side (although there are no really prominent names buried here–a clerk had once told me, years ago, “We do not do fame!”), is that you get to enter the Lebanon Circle where you see family vaults and finally get into the catacombs where lead-lined coffins that have worn with age can be seen very easily in the eerie darkness on shelves only a foot away. These, to my mind, are the best part of a visit here. You enter in pitch darkness and with the aid of a flashlight you see these shelves of coffins, some concealed behind a grave stone bearing a name, others exposed for all to see. There is evidence of grave robbing everywhere–not even in death were folks allowed to rest. We could not access some of the more famous graves–such as that of the Rossettis and Elizabeth Siddal who had moddelled for some of the most famous Pre-Raphelite paintings, as the path was too icy and closed off. The tour included tour graves that were crowned with extraordinary sculpture–one of a lion, another of a dog–the stories that accompanied them were just as fascinating. The lion belonged to a menagerist called George Someone, the dog to a bare fist fighter called Thomas Sawyer. They allowed us to pause and take in the eccentricities of the Victorians but, on such a freezing day, I would have restricted the tour to half its length.
Would I recommend such a tour to a visitor? If you do death, yes. If you have run out of things to do in London (almost an impossibility) yes, if you enjoy stories of strange people, yes. But, for Pete’s sake, make sure you choose a warmer day!
More Retail Therapy and Meeting Michelle:
Had it been a more pleasant day, I might have lingered in pretty Highgate Village and browsed through its shops. As it was, I could not wait to walk to the bottom of Swain’s Lane (about 8 minutes) from where I hopped into a C2 bus that took me past lovely corners of Northern London: Kentish Town and Camden before bringing me to Oxford Circus where I hopped off and nipped straight into Marks and Sparks for my supply of eats: Battenburg Cake and Fruity Flapjack Biscuits. Meanwhile, on the bus, my friend who conducts Civil Law for the British government, Michelle Misquita, had texted to find out if I had any time free to see her. After shopping, I sure did, because my next appointment was dinner with my NYU colleague and friend, Mahnaz. I finished buying my goodies, jumped back on the Tube to meet Michelle at St. James’ Park’s lovely Art Deco station with its Jacob Epstein sculpture all over the place, and then there I was having a lovely reunion with her and settling down for some hot chocolate at Pret a Manger nearby. Michelle and I were college classmates in Elphinstone College, Bombay, majoring in English, and had a very healthy rivalry for marks raging on between the two of us! It is always a joy to catch up with her and to hear about the goings-on in her life. We parted promising each other a reunion with the third member of our English Honors Threesome, Marie-Lou whome I had just met in Bombay visiting from Chicago, some time soon.
Dinner with Mahnaz:
And then it was time to make my way back to Mayfair to meet Mahnaz, my NYU colleague now on a sabbatical of sorts in London. She picked out an Italian eatery called Finos on North End Street behind the Primark store on Oxford Street and there she was, sipping a glass of red Vallipocelli as I walked in. She was starving; I had been nibbling and sipping hot drinks all day, but was ready to sink my teeth into a good salad. And that was what I ordered although she went for a gigantic burger. Goat cheese, pine nuts, assorted peppers and pesto adorned my salad and made it very tasty indeed as it was lightly dressed with balsamic vinegrette. A lovely dinner accompanied by a glass of Peroni, Italy’s very light beer. Despite having just passed a semester as colleagues in New York, Mahnaz and I had barely found the time to connect–we have to travel, it seems to other parts of thew world (Florence, Venice, London) to really sit and connect. We talked about future plans for research and publication and about personal issues and before we knew it, it was almost ten o clock and time to call it a night.
We went our separate ways–me, making the delightful discovery that she is a lodger for the next 9 months with Kate Buffrey, the actress who played the female lead in Trial and Retribution, the detective and courtroom drama that Llew and I had recently enjoyed! What a tiny world!
It was another day that was packed to capacity–as indeed all my days in London are. And at 11.00 pm, when I sank into bed, I fell asleep instantly.
Until tomorrow, cheerio!
Today was All About Therapy–Retail Therapy!!!
Monday, January 19, 2015
London
Jetlag still has control over my life; but when it paid a 3. 15 am Wake-Up Call, it was decidedly better than the previous night’s–2. 15 am. I used time creatively once again to update my blog and scour the Web for suggestions on What To Do. My trusted guides for Secret London and Key to London’s Secrets were insistent about a visit to the West side of Highgate Cemetery and having Been There but Done Only The East Side, a few years ago, I was happy to comply. Accordingly, I went online, scored a ticket for the guided tour beginning at 1. 45 today and given by Friends of Highgate Cemetery (as the West side, supposedly the far more interesting one) is only open to visitors on guided tours.
Then, my young friend Jonas, all of seven years, made a 6.00 am appearance in my room, climbed into my bed and promptly suggested we watch cartoons on the giant Apple TV in my room. And thus it was that I became introduced to Scooby-Doo and his friends! All fun cam to an end when his mother walked into our room and shook her head at him disapprovingly. I am afraid I might not be asked to stay again if I deprive her son of his beauty sleep. Uh-Oh!!!
So while he showered and breakfasted, I jumped into the shower myself and at 8. a00, we were out the door, escorting him along Abbey Road to the American School London where he is in second grade. As he ran along, I took the bus to Finchley Road to the giant Waitrose there to buy my favorite year’s-worth of favorite groceries (did you know Waitrose Darjeeling teabags–not available in the USA where they have never heard of Darjeeling–and it is doubtful they have heard of tea–are much cheaper than Twinnings’s Darjeeling and just as good?). I bought myself an almond croissant and sipped a latte as I roamed through the aisles (please Waitrose, if you can be in Dubai, why can’t you be in New York?), then took the Tube at Finchely Road back home for two stops.
When my groceries were safely deposited back home, I had my second breakfast: Waitrose’s Fruit and Nut Muesli with Honey-Vanilla Yoghurt and the,n in half an hour, I was out the door myself and ready to hit the sales.
Disappointments Galore at Posh Stores:
Only I had arrived in London too late this year, you see–all so-called post-Christmas sales ended on Saturday evening, it appears. Arriving at Green Park station, I strode past the Ritz and into Fortnum’s hoping to find some of its famed goodies on sale–only to find Nothing. And I mean Nada. As a 14 came sailing down Picaadilly, on I hopped thinking Harrods has never let me down. But when I inquired inside, Madam was icily informed that the sale ended two days ago! Darn and Blast! Still, I bet there was some dregs still to be had. Somewhat inspired, I asked for the Souvenir section–and as I rode the escalators past all the heads of Nefertiti smiling down on me and spying the new sculpture of Diana and Dodi and the soaring seagull in the basement, provocatively entitled “Innocent Victims” , I arrived at the third floor where my eyes alighted on Christmas Pudding–not just any pudding, mind you, but luxury ones sold in the signature Harrod’s ceramic pudding bowls. Yes!!!! They were heavy as sin and would be a pain to haul across the pond, but still. It had not been a worthless journey.
Finally! On Carnaby Street:
Back on the Tube , I headed for Soho and the arching signs of Carnaby Street which I had never seen–because I had never been there! Off at Oxford Circus on a particularly chilly day, I was grateful for my layers of cashmere, when my eyes alighted on Liberty of London–another iconic store famed for its pretty cotton printed fabrics and its Tudor design. Well, although I had intentions to buy nothing, how could I resist? It was worth the thrill alone of riding in those linen-fold wooden pannelled lifts alone. So off I sped to the top floor where the last remnant items of their sale are still on display. Slim pickin’s, everywhere, I thought, disappointedly.
A few minutes later, I was striding out the chocolate shop and right on to Carnaby Street and there they were–those arched signed soaring high above the street and saying Welcome to Carnaby Street. I had a wander all the while becoming increasingly aware of the weight on my shoulders for en route, I had also found a Boots pharmacy from where I cleaned out a sale on Dove Silken Glow Body Wash–perhaps the best buy ever in toiletries and the only hand soap you will ever find in our bathrooms back home. With its sophisticated French perfume you might think you had paid a small fortune each time you squirt a bit on your palm. You would be wrong. One Mission Well Accomplished!
More Disappointments in Store:
The idea was to deposit my loaded sack back home on Abbey Road and find transport to Highgate for my 1. 45 pm tour. But although the spirit was willing, the flesh succumbed to jetlag; and still cold-clogged, sleep-deprived me felt a bit light-headed as I left my flat to try to find my way there. Not being so familiar with North London and the network of Tubes and buses there, I made some terrible mistakes as I followed maps (no GPS on my internet once I step out of the house, remember?) and before I knew it, I was at Swiss Cottage trying to find a cab to get me there on time. No such luck! Not a cab was in sight as I trudged along and bus drivers are nowhere as helpful as they once used to be–they seemed never to have heard of Highgate Cemetery and certainly did not know how to point me in the next direction. I was tired and sleepy and frustrated and knew I could not get there on time. It was time for Plan B.
More Retail Therapy on Elizabeth Street:
I had stopped to fix myself a sandwich when home and it was on a Green Park bench back in the city, watched by crafty pigeons and craftier squirrels, that I ate it and gave myself a bit of a rest. Then, I was on the Tube again and headed to Sloan Square and Elizabeth Street to indulge in a treat for which I had waited a very long time–15 months to be precise: being introduced to Jo Loves, the new avatar of my favorite perfumier, Jo Malone. She opened her one and only store exactly one month after I last left London the last time and the Number One item on my agenda was a visit to her store for an introduction to her new line.
In the able hands of Michael, I had my skin painted with brushes laden with body creme. Strips of card were sprayed with her new works of sensual art: Pomelo, Green Orange and Coriander, A Shot of Sweet Peas, Pink Vetiver (my favorite), A Shot of Thai Lime over Mango. Ceramic Tagines gave me the experience of stepping into a fragrant steaming bath–Jo calls it caviar for the bath tube. Being the expert marketer she is, she would. They went on and on. Inspired by her travels (in Thailand, in New York and by the store next-door, a florist, where she had begun her working life in retail), Michael did a competent job enticing me. I had thought, knowing “Jo” as if she were my best friend or sister, I would absolutely adore them all. But nothing of the sort happened and but for two, I was left not too enthused. Perhaps it will take my nose and my psyche a while to make the transition. We shall see. I was presented with sample strips although no real sample phials were given, and off I went down Elizabeth Street which on a less freezing day would, no doubt, offer more enticements.
Off to King’s Cross:
It was time to touch base with my friend Rosemary whom I know as Roz who was meeting me at King’s Cross for our evening together. The Victoria Line took me directly to the spot she suggested: the Square in front of the station near the Henry Moore sculpture (added recently). I was early, I needed the loo, I decided to wander into the newly-refurbished Renaissance Hotel to see the spectacular stairway that a fond long-time Londoner claimed was his favorite place in the entire city (I can’t remember who). Thank you dear Sir John Betjeman for saving this gorgeous building from destruction. It has, despite all restrictions, been artfully converted into a modern hotel. Today, its corridors gleam, its Gothic windows offer views of a busy street that sees hordes spilling out by the minute and bars galore, named suitably The Gilbert Scott (the original Victorian architect) and The Betjeman Arms (after the 20th century poet who saved it) allow the passer-by to enjoy a drink and a sit-down. I used the lovely loo, as intended, before making my way to the square where, five minutes later, I had a lovely reunion with Roz just off work.
Laser Lights Festival at Canary Wharf–Not!!!
It was time for a warming cup of tea in the station concourse and before long, we were catching up at Leon over steaming paper glasses–why has London succumbed to such trashy New York ways? Where are the civilized ceramic pots of tea that you could only find in the UK when you ordered tea please? So many changes and some not quite appealing enough!
Then, we were on the Tube headed to Canary Wharf. Roz had been justifiably doubtful about the Lights Show that the Visit Britain tweet had recommended throughout the month of January. But I was the foreigner and she was indulgent. Canary Wharf was not her favorite place, but there were lights and there was a Carluccio’s, so why not, she said???
Only there really wasn’t very much to impress. Trees still sport their ice-blue strings of lights but I suspect those have been left over since Christmas. That said, if there were lights were wanted, there were thousands–from the soaring skyscrapers that formed a concrete well-illuminated city. In the park nearby, whose ingeniously-designed gushing fountains sported a few floating discs of light that changed color cutely by the minute, there were some lights. But the laser projections on the building walls and on the river that I had expected were nowhere in sight.
Dinner Time at Carluccio’s:
It was time for some serious eating to compensate for our disappointment and Carluccio’s never disappoints (why Mr. Carluccio, do you not leap over the Atlantic and come to America?). We chose the Primi and Secondi specials for 10.99 pounds each–the kind of deal you can never dream of finding in America. And how well we chose too! We had two starters of caponata that were served bruschetta-style over warmed goat’s cheese and toast points to be laden with chicken pate and the most divine caramelized oinions. Over glasses of red wine, we had ourselves a most decadent first course and being the conscious, careful eaters we are (we talked mostly about food after we had discussed family and work doings!), we seriously wondered whether we could do justice to our mains: polenta with slow-cooked beef ragu poured all over it (delicioso!) and al dente served penne pasta with spicy Italian sausage. Predictably, we enjoyed both courses immensely but could only pick. Needless to say, we skipped on the dolci (my favorite course, always foregone, sadly) and then we were out of the maze that is the malls and the corporate offices and on the Jubilee Line headed home.
I was exhausted and 10.00 pm when I put key through door (I had hopped off at Baker Street and switched to a bus that dropped me right opposite my building instead of having to walk from the Tube station down Grove End Road), it was all I could do to greet my hosts (little Jonas was already in bed) and crash.
Retail Therapy had provided little solace but meeting my friend and catching up with her is always a pleasure and it somewhat made up for the cold, the lack of goodies to take back home and the fact of getting hopelessly lost in trying to find Highgate. The only silver lining was that the clerk at the cemetery had sympathized with my situation and, through a phone call, offered me the tour tomorrow.
Until then, cheerio!
Today Was all About Therapy–Retail Therapy!
Monday, January 19, 2015
London
Jetlag still has control over my life; but when it paid a 3. 15 am Wake-Up Call, it was decidedly better than the previous night’s–2. 15 am. I used time creatively once again to update my blog and scour the Web for suggestions on What To Do. My trusted guides for Secret London and Key to London’s Secrets were insistent about a visit to the West side of Highgate Cemetery and having Been There but Done Only The East Side, a few years ago, I was happy to comply. Accordingly, I went online, scored a ticket for the guided tour beginning at 1. 45 today and given by Friends of Highgate Cemetery (as the West side, supposedly the far more interesting one) is only open to visitors on guided tours.
Then, my young friend Jonas, all of seven years, made a 6.00 am appearance in my room, climbed into my bed and promptly suggested we watch cartoons on the giant Apple TV in my room. And thus it was that I became introduced to Scooby-Doo and his friends! All fun cam to an end when his mother walked into our room and shook her head at him disapprovingly. I am afraid I might not be asked to stay again if I deprive her son of his beauty sleep. Uh-Oh!!!
So while he showered and breakfasted, I jumped into the shower myself and at 8. a00, we were out the door, escorting him along Abbey Road to the American School London where he is in second grade. As he ran along, I took the bus to Finchley Road to the giant Waitrose there to buy my favorite year’s-worth of favorite groceries (did you know Waitrose Darjeeling teabags–not available in the USA where they have never heard of Darjeeling–and it is doubtful they have heard of tea–are much cheaper than Twinnings’s Darjeeling and just as good?). I bought myself an almond croissant and sipped a latte as I roamed through the aisles (please Waitrose, if you can be in Dubai, why can’t you be in New York?), then took the Tube at Finchely Road back home for two stops.
When my groceries were safely deposited back home, I had my second breakfast: Waitrose’s Fruit and Nut Muesli with Honey-Vanilla Yoghurt and the,n in half an hour, I was out the door myself and ready to hit the sales.
Disappointments Galore at Posh Stores:
Only I had arrived in London too late this year, you see–all so-called post-Christmas sales ended on Saturday evening, it appears. Arriving at Green Park station, I strode past the Ritz and into Fortnum’s hoping to find some of its famed goodies on sale–only to find Nothing. And I mean Nada. As a 14 came sailing down Picaadilly, on I hopped thinking Harrods has never let me down. But when I inquired inside, Madam was icily informed that the sale ended two days ago! Darn and Blast! Still, I bet there was some dregs still to be had. Somewhat inspired, I asked for the Souvenir section–and as I rode the escalators past all the heads of Nefertiti smiling down on me and spying the new sculpture of Diana and Dodi and the soaring seagull in the basement, provocatively entitled “Innocent Victims” , I arrived at the third floor where my eyes alighted on Christmas Pudding–not just any pudding, mind you, but luxury ones sold in the signature Harrod’s ceramic pudding bowls. Yes!!!! They were heavy as sin and would be a pain to haul across the pond, but still. It had not been a worthless journey.
Finally! On Carnaby Street:
Back on the Tube , I headed for Soho and the arching signs of Carnaby Street which I had never seen–because I had never been there! Off at Oxford Circus on a particularly chilly day, I was grateful for my layers of cashmere, when my eyes alighted on Liberty of London–another iconic store famed for its pretty cotton printed fabrics and its Tudor design. Well, although I had intentions to buy nothing, how could I resist? It was worth the thrill alone of riding in those linen-fold wooden pannelled lifts alone. So off I sped to the top floor where the last remnant items of their sale are still on display. Slim pickin’s, everywhere, I thought, disappointedly.
A few minutes later, I was striding out the chocolate shop and right on to Carnaby Street and there they were–those arched signed soaring high above the street and saying Welcome to Carnaby Street. I had a wander all the while becoming increasingly aware of the weight on my shoulders for en route, I had also found a Boots pharmacy from where I cleaned out a sale on Dove Silken Glow Body Wash–perhaps the best buy ever in toiletries and the only hand soap you will ever find in our bathrooms back home. With its sophisticated French perfume you might think you had paid a small fortune each time you squirt a bit on your palm. You would be wrong. One Mission Well Accomplished!
More Disappointments in Store:
The idea was to deposit my loaded sack back home on Abbey Road and find transport to Highgate for my 1. 45 pm tour. But although the spirit was willing, the flesh succumbed to jetlag; and still cold-clogged, sleep-deprived me felt a bit light-headed as I left my flat to try to find my way there. Not being so familiar with North London and the network of Tubes and buses there, I made some terrible mistakes as I followed maps (no GPS on my internet once I step out of the house, remember?) and before I knew it, I was at Swiss Cottage trying to find a cab to get me there on time. No such luck! Not a cab was in sight as I trudged along and bus drivers are nowhere as helpful as they once used to be–they seemed never to have heard of Highgate Cemetery and certainly did not know how to point me in the next direction. I was tired and sleepy and frustrated and knew I could not get there on time. It was time for Plan B.
More Retail Therapy on Elizabeth Street:
I had stopped to fix myself a sandwich when home and it was on a Green Park bench back in the city, watched by crafty pigeons and craftier squirrels, that I ate it and gave myself a bit of a rest. Then, I was on the Tube again and headed to Sloan Square and Elizabeth Street to indulge in a treat for which I had waited a very long time–15 months to be precise: being introduced to Jo Loves, the new avatar of my favorite perfumier, Jo Malone. She opened her one and only store exactly one month after I last left London the last time and the Number One item on my agenda was a visit to her store for an introduction to her new line.
In the able hands of Michael, I had my skin painted with brushes laden with body creme. Strips of card were sprayed with her new works of sensual art: Pomelo, Green Orange and Coriander, A Shot of Sweet Peas, Pink Vetiver (my favorite), A Shot of Thai Lime over Mango. Ceramic Tagines gave me the experience of stepping into a fragrant steaming bath–Jo calls it caviar for the bath tube. Being the expert marketer she is, she would. They went on and on. Inspired by her travels (in Thailand, in New York and by the store next-door, a florist, where she had begun her working life in retail), Michael did a competent job enticing me. I had thought, knowing “Jo” as if she were my best friend or sister, I would absolutely adore them all. But nothing of the sort happened and but for two, I was left not too enthused. Perhaps it will take my nose and my psyche a while to make the transition. We shall see. I was presented with sample strips although no real sample phials were given, and off I went down Elizabeth Street which on a less freezing day would, no doubt, offer more enticements.
Off to King’s Cross:
It was time to touch base with my friend Rosemary whom I know as Roz who was meeting me at King’s Cross for our evening together. The Victoria Line took me directly to the spot she suggested: the Square in front of the station near the Henry Moore sculpture (added recently). I was early, I needed the loo, I decided to wander into the newly-refurbished Renaissance Hotel to see the spectacular stairway that a fond long-time Londoner claimed was his favorite place in the entire city (I can’t remember who). Thank you dear Sir John Betjeman for saving this gorgeous building from destruction. It has, despite all restrictions, been artfully converted into a modern hotel. Today, its corridors gleam, its Gothic windows offer views of a busy street that sees hordes spilling out by the minute and bars galore, named suitably The Gilbert Scott (the original Victorian architect) and The Betjeman Arms (after the 20th century poet who saved it) allow the passer-by to enjoy a drink and a sit-down. I used the lovely loo, as intended, before making my way to the square where, five minutes later, I had a lovely reunion with Roz just off work.
Laser Lights Festival at Canary Wharf–Not!!!
It was time for a warming cup of tea in the station concourse and before long, we were catching up at Leon over steaming paper glasses–why has London succumbed to such trashy New York ways? Where are the civilized ceramic pots of tea that you could only find in the UK when you ordered tea please? So many changes and some not quite appealing enough!
Then, we were on the Tube headed to Canary Wharf. Roz had been justifiably doubtful about the Lights Show that the Visit Britain tweet had recommended throughout the month of January. But I was the foreigner and she was indulgent. Canary Wharf was not her favorite place, but there were lights and there was a Carluccio’s, so why not, she said???
Only there really wasn’t very much to impress. Trees still sport their ice-blue strings of lights but I suspect those have been left over since Christmas. That said, if there were lights were wanted, there were thousands–from the soaring skyscrapers that formed a concrete well-illuminated city. In the park nearby, whose ingeniously-designed gushing fountains sported a few floating discs of light that changed color cutely by the minute, there were some lights. But the laser projections on the building walls and on the river that I had expected were nowhere in sight.
Dinner Time at Carluccio’s:
It was time for some serious eating to compensate for our disappointment and Carluccio’s never disappoints (why Mr. Carluccio, do you not leap over the Atlantic and come to America?). We chose the Primi and Secondi specials for 10.99 pounds each–the kind of deal you can never dream of finding in America. And how well we chose too! We had two starters of caponata that were served bruschetta-style over warmed goat’s cheese and toast points to be laden with chicken pate and the most divine caramelized oinions. Over glasses of red wine, we had ourselves a most decadent first course and being the conscious, careful eaters we are (we talked mostly about food after we had discussed family and work doings!), we seriously wondered whether we could do justice to our mains: polenta with slow-cooked beef ragu poured all over it (delicioso!) and al dente served penne pasta with spicy Italian sausage. Predictably, we enjoyed both courses immensely but could only pick. Needless to say, we skipped on the dolci (my favorite course, always foregone, sadly) and then we were out of the maze that is the malls and the corporate offices and on the Jubilee Line headed home.
I was exhausted and 10.00 pm when I put key through door (I had hopped off at Baker Street and switched to a bus that dropped me right opposite my building instead of having to walk from the Tube station down Grove End Road), it was all I could do to greet my hosts (little Jonas was already in bed) and crash.
Retail Therapy had provided little solace but meeting my friend and catching up with her is always a pleasure and it somewhat made up for the cold, the lack of goodies to take back home and the fact of getting hopelessly lost in trying to find Highgate. The only silver lining was that the clerk at the cemetery had sympathized with my situation and, through a phone call, offered me the tour tomorrow.
Until then, cheerio!
Pigging Out on First Full Day in London
Sunday, January 18, 2015
London
Less than 24 hours in London and nothing could have been fuller. Not my day, nor my tummy. Spent most of it pigging out in quite the most delicious fashion. Details to follow.
Awake from 2.30 am (thanks to Bombay body clock), I found deeply creative ways to pass time without waking up my host household. Tweeting, surfing, reading the unique guidebooks I am carrying, kept me creatively and excitedly occupied until dawn announced its quiet presence. It was time for a shower, a decaff coffee in the company of my sweet young friend Jonas whose parents had a Sunday morning lie-in. He put me through the paces of the Nespresso coffee machine in the kitchen and munching on a chocolate rice crispie, I made my way to the bus stop at 8. 15 am for my Mass date with my former neighbor and friend, Barbara.
Re-Discovering London from the Top Deck of a Red Bus:
A bus trundled along in five, I found my favorite seat in the house (upper deck, front and center) and marveled, as I always do, at London’s essentially Victorian architecture in this pricey northern corner. Streaky bacon buildings abound (red brick with white horizontal granite stripes that wrap the buildings as in a traditional terrine–forgive the British foodie association) until one hits Baker Street when Sherlock’s fictional home comes into view on the intersection with Marylebon Road when things become a mélange of old versus modern. My bus was terminating at Oxford Circus which, from the upper deck, allowed me to take in the white globe lighting that had adorned the street this past Christmas. London lay calm, quiet, gleaming after a recent shower, fresh on this Sunday morning when the rest of the world pretended, for just a few minutes longer, that it did not have a life to get on with.
At Oxford Circus, I disappeared down the Tube stairwell, found the Central Line going east, hopped on for three stops, got off (out of force of habit at Chancery Lane that in my mind is forever linked with Dickens’ Bleak House) and started the brisk walk to Ely Place at Holborn Circus–all the while taking in changes that have occurred in the last 16 months: equestrian Prince Albert has been moved further up the road but his recently-polished pedestal is gleaming afresh; Wren’s Church of St. Andrew’s Holborn is under copious scaffolding, but I did catch a quick glimpse of the dome of his greatest masterpiece, St. Paul’s Cathedral; and the blind golden Goddess of Justice with her scales stands still on the top of Old Bailey. Then, I was making a smart left to get to St. Etheldreda’s Church (remembering, all the time, my first ever venture at finding London’s oldest Catholic church, many moons ago, when I had skirted around Holborn Circus visiting every sacred site in sight–and finally found it, concealed in Ely Place behind impressive private gates).
Some things do not change–thankfully. There was Barbara, my friend, in her habitual seat; and Jane, the plaited lawyer with the posh accent who has been a lector at the church forever; Win, who was much abler in days gone by when I was a regular parishioner; and, of course, dear old Fr. Tom who had welcomed me to the parish community personally, once upon a time, but had no recollection of it whatsoever! Mass was a much noisier affair than I remembered with several children part of the livelier congregation. How marvelous it is to return to an ancient church and feel at home instantly! In an hour, when it was all over, Barbara introduced me to Esther who accompanied us as far as Sainsbury’s before Barbara went full speed ahead on to High Holborn to lead me on a mini-walking tour that took us right across the eerie bandstand at Lincoln’s Inn Field, across from Sir John Soanes Museum and onto the other side where the Royal College of Surgeons conceals the Hunterian Museum with its endless jars of formaldahyde.
In a thrice, we were at a brand-new building of the famed London School of Economics which came close to winning the Sterling Prize for Architecture. It is a many-pronged red brick building with a pointed section that juts out high above as if reaching out to kiss its much older neighbor, Dickens’ Old Curiosity Shop (now a shoe shop). Hidden behind scaffolding forever, its revelation produced true Ta-Da moments and it has now become an architectural show piece. On to Kingsway we swung to accomplish another one of Barbara’s charming Sunday morning rituals: buying the paper from the newsmonger on the corner of High Holborn and Kingsway–a habit I had picked up from her when we were next-door neighbors. Suddenly, London seemed to have sprung to life as early-bird visitors thronged out of the Tube station and spilled on to Kingsway.
Store-fronts seem to change along High Holborn every two seconds but thankfully all the scaffolding has disappeared and the charming curve of the road from the comfortingly solid Rosewood Hotel on one side of it to the multiple-turreted Prudential Assurance Building on the other side is now clearly in evidence–not quite different really from two hundred years ago. Soon we were entering the lobby of my beloved former building at “7HH” and taking the elevator up to the second floor, striding through those beloved familiar corridors with their swinging fire doors and opening the flat next door to the one in which I had passed such unforgettable times. It was the perfect reunion with a perfect city!
Tim was putting the finishing touches to the knot of his tie and looking suitably dapper for our formal lunch date later in the afternoon before disappearing into the kitchen to produce toasted croissants, butter, apricot jam, fruit and coffee. Our discussion over brekkie had focused on Tim’s most unusual cuff links that turned out to be bean-shaped chunks of polished lapis lazuli from Afghanistan which led to the spontaneous gifting to me of a book entitled Color–on how paints have been procured through the ages by artists: a somewhat unexpected book exchange as I had gifted these lovers of stuffed bears a book about stuffed bears!
Formal Luncheon at Morden College, Blackheath:
And then it was time to get out of the house and stride down more streets towards Blackfriars to take the train to Blackheath as we were all invited to lunch at a very special place: Morden College, what we in America would call an assisted living community. This one is very special having been around since the 1600s when Lord Morden established it for river traders who had fallen on hard times. Our mutual friends, Bishop Michael and his wife Cynthia had invited the three of us to lunch with them and the inmates in a formal sit-down, three-course meal for which we were all appropriately attired.
Our half hour train ride from Blackfriars station was itself an interesting and unusual experience as it is not every day that one catches a train from a station that is actually a historic bridge across a river (Barnes Bridge Station over the Thames at Kew comes to mind but it is much less busy). Skimming above the rooftops of London, we spied the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf in the distance and then before we knew it, we were arriving at Lewisham and then Blackheath, a very pretty village with a vast heath. Following Michael’s directions, we arrived at the duck pond (charmingly filled with mallard life and excited squealing children) and the lovely crescent of old merchants’ houses for Blackheath adjoins Greenwich on the river Thames where trade was vigorously carried out through the ages.
Soon, the gates of Morden College came into view and we were making our way to the Main Building that is very similar to Charterhouse in Clerkenwell with its red brick Tudor buildings, manicured lawns, cupolas, domes, clock towers and stairs leading to secret quadrangles made green by Elizabethan knot gardens and conical topiaries. It was all quite lovely.
Then, our friend Cynthia was welcoming us (how good it felt to be back with her) and leading us to the bar where so many inmates, reminiscent of the folk in the film Quartet were enjoying a glass of wine before lunch. Our friend the Bishop made his appearance so that more greeting and warm hugs followed and another mini-tour of the premises took us on a walk along curving pathways, hedges brimming over with red berries and into the chapel. There was time only for a quick powder of the nose before we entered the lovely formal dining room (reminiscent of one of London’s more exclusive clubs with its painted oil portraits, damask wall paper and heavy drapers) ready for Michael to say Grace and start our meal.
A bread basket and butter flirted around as red wine and water were poured and then the courses kept coming. Cream of Mushroom Soup followed by our table’s unanimous choice of Roast Lamb with Mint Sauce and all the trimmings: roast potatoes, boiled new potatoes or mashed potatoes, new peas, mashed suede (read squash), gravy, mint sauce, redcurrant jelly, mustard. Yum, yum and then yum. And let’s hear it for this most civilized of British eating traditions: the Sunday Roast Dinner! Dessert followed: Bread and Butter Pudding studded with raisins and swimming in custard! When in doubt, believe British chefs, drown your pudding in more pudding! And I will drink to that! It was as British as any first meal could be and my tummy was cheering.
Coffee was served in the adjoining library filled with leather-bound volumes and more current periodicals. I could get used to this lifestyle, I thought. Like being on a cruise, only staying stationary! I am also convinced that whoever invented the British Sunday Roast Dinner, also invented the siesta! While the graceful residents adjourned discreetly to their room to sleep off their gastronomic indulgence, Michael amused himself by watching me mount a rocking horse and indulge in some general clowning duly noted for posterity in a collection of corny pictures.
Afternoon Tea at The Montague On The Gardens:
While Barbara and Tim elected to cross the Heath on foot and get to Greenwich (a good 40 minute trek), I, who was sorely tempted to join them, decided to do the sensible thing: take the train back from Blackheath to make it in time for my next appointment in Bloomsbury. This time I arrived in Victoria station which permitted easy Tube connections to Russel Square which I crossed on foot to arrive at The Montague On The Gardens Hotel for that other most civilized of British eating traditions–Afternoon Tea! More nose-powdering went on in discreet powder rooms heavy with wooden paneling before I joined our Dean’s Circle: a bunch of 25 gifted students and several staff chaperones seated around three spacious tables.
I had barely gotten over my own over-indulgence at lunch time and it was time to face that three-course sea of carb overload they call a traditional British Tea: assorted finger sandwiches filled with smoked salmon, chicken salad, egg mayonnaise and, of course, that star of the tea table, the cucumber sandwich. Debate duly followed on whether scones ought to be slathered with lashings of clotted cream and then strawberry jam or vice versa. Someone, please let me know when that dispute is settled! And for the sweet finishing touch, there were fruit tarts, lemon syllabub, coffee profiteroles, lime macarons and staging an intrusive appearance a table, that most American of gastronomic inventions, the brownie! We sighed and we grumbled–how could anyone put so many delights before us all at once? It was impossible to choose! But choose we did and as the Earl Grey flowed and the English Breakfast was downed, we sipped and chatted and the decibels grew louder. I am convinced that it is a crime to visit the UK and not partake of Afternoon Tea (NOT be to confused with High Tea, please) in a fancy hotel while being spoiled rotten by liveried waiters who join in the cream first versus jam first discourse).
Jetlag got the better of me towards the end of my second cup–for, lest you forget, I had been up since 2. 30 am! I had plans to meet my friend Bina in Harrow but, being on her way back from Cardiff in Wales where she had dropped her son off to “Uni”, she postponed our meeting by a good hour and a half. I felt certain I could simply not last that long and decided to get back to St. John’s Wood for a nap before keeping our late evening date.
I got sidetracked for one last errand: a quick nip into the Waitrose at Brunswick Square to pick up some of my favorite English goodies and then I was on the bus taking the longest route ever to arrive at Abbey Road where I was quite thoroughly wiped out. Raquel and I indulged in some conversations but I am certain I had lost my wits by then and it was gratefully that I crept into bed, relieving my hosts of the generous doggie bag we had been gifted by the hotel folks while contenting myself with just one mug of lemony tea before dropping into bed after a long phone conversation with Bina whom I hope to see later in the week.
Was my first full day eventful enough for you! It was for me!!!!
Until tomorrow, Cheerio All!
Pigging Out on First Full Day in London
London
Less than 24 hours in London and nothing could have been fuller. Not my day, nor my tummy. Spent most of it pigging out in quite the most delicious fashion. Details to follow.
Awake from 2.30 am (thanks to Bombay body clock), I found deeply creative ways to pass time without waking up my host household. Tweeting, surfing, reading the unique guidebooks I am carrying, kept me creatively and excitedly occupied until dawn announced its quiet presence. It was time for a shower, a decaff coffee in the company of my sweet young friend Jonas whose parents had a Sunday morning lie-in. He put me through the paces of the Nespresso coffee machine in the kitchen and munching on a chocolate rice crispie, I made my way to the bus stop at 8. 15 am for my Mass date with my former neighbor and friend, Barbara.
Re-Discovering London from the Top Deck of a Red Bus:
A bus trundled along in five, I found my favorite seat in the house (upper deck, front and center) and marveled, as I always do, at London’s essentially Victorian architecture in this pricey northern corner. Streaky bacon buildings abound (red brick with white horizontal granite stripes that wrap the buildings as in a traditional terrine–forgive the British foodie association) until one hits Baker Street when Sherlock’s fictional home comes into view on the intersection with Marylebon Road when things become a mélange of old versus modern. My bus was terminating at Oxford Circus which, from the upper deck, allowed me to take in the white globe lighting that had adorned the street this past Christmas. London lay calm, quiet, gleaming after a recent shower, fresh on this Sunday morning when the rest of the world pretended, for just a few minutes longer, that it did not have a life to get on with.
At Oxford Circus, I disappeared down the Tube stairwell, found the Central Line going east, hopped on for three stops, got off (out of force of habit at Chancery Lane that in my mind is forever linked with Dickens’ Bleak House) and started the brisk walk to Ely Place at Holborn Circus–all the while taking in changes that have occurred in the last 16 months: equestrian Prince Albert has been moved further up the road but his recently-polished pedestal is gleaming afresh; Wren’s Church of St. Andrew’s Holborn is under copious scaffolding, but I did catch a quick glimpse of the dome of his greatest masterpiece, St. Paul’s Cathedral; and the blind golden Goddess of Justice with her scales stands still on the top of Old Bailey. Then, I was making a smart left to get to St. Etheldreda’s Church (remembering, all the time, my first ever venture at finding London’s oldest Catholic church, many moons ago, when I had skirted around Holborn Circus visiting every sacred site in sight–and finally found it, concealed in Ely Place behind impressive private gates).
Some things do not change–thankfully. There was Barbara, my friend, in her habitual seat; and Jane, the plaited lawyer with the posh accent who has been a lector at the church forever; Win, who was much abler in days gone by when I was a regular parishioner; and, of course, dear old Fr. Tom who had welcomed me to the parish community personally, once upon a time, but had no recollection of it whatsoever! Mass was a much noisier affair than I remembered with several children part of the livelier congregation. How marvelous it is to return to an ancient church and feel at home instantly! In an hour, when it was all over, Barbara introduced me to Esther who accompanied us as far as Sainsbury’s before Barbara went full speed ahead on to High Holborn to lead me on a mini-walking tour that took us right across the eerie bandstand at Lincoln’s Inn Field, across from Sir John Soanes Museum and onto the other side where the Royal College of Surgeons conceals the Hunterian Museum with its endless jars of formaldahyde.
In a thrice, we were at a brand-new building of the famed London School of Economics which came close to winning the Sterling Prize for Architecture. It is a many-pronged red brick building with a pointed section that juts out high above as if reaching out to kiss its much older neighbor, Dickens’ Old Curiosity Shop (now a shoe shop). Hidden behind scaffolding forever, its revelation produced true Ta-Da moments and it has now become an architectural show piece. On to Kingsway we swung to accomplish another one of Barbara’s charming Sunday morning rituals: buying the paper from the newsmonger on the corner of High Holborn and Kingsway–a habit I had picked up from her when we were next-door neighbors. Suddenly, London seemed to have sprung to life as early-bird visitors thronged out of the Tube station and spilled on to Kingsway.
Store-fronts seem to change along High Holborn every two seconds but thankfully all the scaffolding has disappeared and the charming curve of the road from the comfortingly solid Rosewood Hotel on one side of it to the multiple-turreted Prudential Assurance Building on the other side is now clearly in evidence–not quite different really from two hundred years ago. Soon we were entering the lobby of my beloved former building at “7HH” and taking the elevator up to the second floor, striding through those beloved familiar corridors with their swinging fire doors and opening the flat next door to the one in which I had passed such unforgettable times. It was the perfect reunion with a perfect city!
Tim was putting the finishing touches to the knot of his tie and looking suitably dapper for our formal lunch date later in the afternoon before disappearing into the kitchen to produce toasted croissants, butter, apricot jam, fruit and coffee. Our discussion over brekkie had focused on Tim’s most unusual cuff links that turned out to be bean-shaped chunks of polished lapis lazuli from Afghanistan which led to the spontaneous gifting to me of a book entitled Color–on how paints have been procured through the ages by artists: a somewhat unexpected book exchange as I had gifted these lovers of stuffed bears a book about stuffed bears!
Formal Luncheon at Morden College, Blackheath:
And then it was time to get out of the house and stride down more streets towards Blackfriars to take the train to Blackheath as we were all invited to lunch at a very special place: Morden College, what we in America would call an assisted living community. This one is very special having been around since the 1600s when Lord Morden established it for river traders who had fallen on hard times. Our mutual friends, Bishop Michael and his wife Cynthia had invited the three of us to lunch with them and the inmates in a formal sit-down, three-course meal for which we were all appropriately attired.
Our half hour train ride from Blackfriars station was itself an interesting and unusual experience as it is not every day that one catches a train from a station that is actually a historic bridge across a river (Barnes Bridge Station over the Thames at Kew comes to mind but it is much less busy). Skimming above the rooftops of London, we spied the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf in the distance and then before we knew it, we were arriving at Lewisham and then Blackheath, a very pretty village with a vast heath. Following Michael’s directions, we arrived at the duck pond (charmingly filled with mallard life and excited squealing children) and the lovely crescent of old merchants’ houses for Blackheath adjoins Greenwich on the river Thames where trade was vigorously carried out through the ages.
Soon, the gates of Morden College came into view and we were making our way to the Main Building that is very similar to Charterhouse in Clerkenwell with its red brick Tudor buildings, manicured lawns, cupolas, domes, clock towers and stairs leading to secret quadrangles made green by Elizabethan knot gardens and conical topiaries. It was all quite lovely.
Then, our friend Cynthia was welcoming us (how good it felt to be back with her) and leading us to the bar where so many inmates, reminiscent of the folk in the film Quartet were enjoying a glass of wine before lunch. Our friend the Bishop made his appearance so that more greeting and warm hugs followed and another mini-tour of the premises took us on a walk along curving pathways, hedges brimming over with red berries and into the chapel. There was time only for a quick powder of the nose before we entered the lovely formal dining room (reminiscent of one of London’s more exclusive clubs with its painted oil portraits, damask wall paper and heavy drapers) ready for Michael to say Grace and start our meal.
A bread basket and butter flirted around as red wine and water were poured and then the courses kept coming. Cream of Mushroom Soup followed by our table’s unanimous choice of Roast Lamb with Mint Sauce and all the trimmings: roast potatoes, boiled new potatoes or mashed potatoes, new peas, mashed suede (read squash), gravy, mint sauce, redcurrant jelly, mustard. Yum, yum and then yum. And let’s hear it for this most civilized of British eating traditions: the Sunday Roast Dinner! Dessert followed: Bread and Butter Pudding studded with raisins and swimming in custard! When in doubt, believe British chefs, drown your pudding in more pudding! And I will drink to that! It was as British as any first meal could be and my tummy was cheering.
Coffee was served in the adjoining library filled with leather-bound volumes and more current periodicals. I could get used to this lifestyle, I thought. Like being on a cruise, only staying stationary! I am also convinced that whoever invented the British Sunday Roast Dinner, also invented the siesta! While the graceful residents adjourned discreetly to their room to sleep off their gastronomic indulgence, Michael amused himself by watching me mount a rocking horse and indulge in some general clowning duly noted for posterity in a collection of corny pictures.
Afternoon Tea at The Montague On The Gardens:
While Barbara and Tim elected to cross the Heath on foot and get to Greenwich (a good 40 minute trek), I, who was sorely tempted to join them, decided to do the sensible thing: take the train back from Blackheath to make it in time for my next appointment in Bloomsbury. This time I arrived in Victoria station which permitted easy Tube connections to Russel Square which I crossed on foot to arrive at The Montague On The Gardens Hotel for that other most civilized of British eating traditions–Afternoon Tea! More nose-powdering went on in discreet powder rooms heavy with wooden paneling before I joined our Dean’s Circle: a bunch of 25 gifted students and several staff chaperones seated around three spacious tables.
I had barely gotten over my own over-indulgence at lunch time and it was time to face that three-course sea of carb overload they call a traditional British Tea: assorted finger sandwiches filled with smoked salmon, chicken salad, egg mayonnaise and, of course, that star of the tea table, the cucumber sandwich. Debate duly followed on whether scones ought to be slathered with lashings of clotted cream and then strawberry jam or vice versa. Someone, please let me know when that dispute is settled! And for the sweet finishing touch, there were fruit tarts, lemon syllabub, coffee profiteroles, lime macarons and staging an intrusive appearance a table, that most American of gastronomic inventions, the brownie! We sighed and we grumbled–how could anyone put so many delights before us all at once? It was impossible to choose! But choose we did and as the Earl Grey flowed and the English Breakfast was downed, we sipped and chatted and the decibels grew louder. I am convinced that it is a crime to visit the UK and not partake of Afternoon Tea (NOT be to confused with High Tea, please) in a fancy hotel while being spoiled rotten by liveried waiters who join in the cream first versus jam first discourse).
Jetlag got the better of me towards the end of my second cup–for, lest you forget, I had been up since 2. 30 am! I had plans to meet my friend Bina in Harrow but, being on her way back from Cardiff in Wales where she had dropped her son off to “Uni”, she postponed our meeting by a good hour and a half. I felt certain I could simply not last that long and decided to get back to St. John’s Wood for a nap before keeping our late evening date.
I got sidetracked for one last errand: a quick nip into the Waitroseat Brunswick Square to pick up some of my favorite English goodies and then I was on the bus taking the longest route ever to arrive at Abbey Road where I was quite thoroughly wiped out. Raquel and I indulged in some conversations but I am certain I had lost my wits by then and it was gratefully that I crept into bed, relieving my hosts of the generous doggie bag we had been gifted by the hotel folks while contenting myself with just one mug of lemony tea before dropping into bed after a long phone conversation with Bina whom I hope to see later in the week.
Was my first full day eventful enough for you! It was for me!!!!
Until tomorrow, Cheerio All!
London! I Am In You Again!
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Abbey Road, London:
I am back! Yes, I am here again! Exactly 16 months after I departed, this, my favorite city in the world, I have returned like the proverbial bad penny in the late and very dark hours while a chill draped the city like a shroud. I am older, hopefully a bit wiser, and a lot fonder of this capital than I ought to be.
Apart from my baggage, I came towing the last vestiges of a full-blown cold (thanks to Bombay’s air pollution) and the remnants of a heightened temperature. Drugged on paracetamol, I stood the journey quite stoically and marveled that my lowered energy levels had climbed enough to enable me to haul baggage about like a pro. A wintry welcome could not dampen my enthusiasm as I strode gamely out of Terminal 5 and followed signs to WH Smith to claim my free Lebara SIM card. Only while every second ad on the British Airways In-Flight Entertainment channel had urged me to pick up my FREE SIM card from the bookstore in the Terminal before leaving, it did not inform me that I needed to request the cabin crew to hand me a free voucher that I would then hand over to the sales clerk to claim my free card. So irritating! Still, I paid the princely sum of 99p for my card, then loaded it with 10 pounds worth of calling time and off I went in search of the Underground. I wasn’t going to allow this little annoyance to tamper with my elation even if the weather was reportedly pretty damp outside.
I need not have worried about hauling heavy baggage through the Terminal and on to the Underground train. What an easy connection they have created from Terminal 5 to public transport that whizzes you downtown–sorry, but I’m speaking American from force of habit–I meant to the City Center (or is that Euro-speak?). Anyway, I re-loaded my Oyster card with unlimited rides in Zones 1 and 2 for the next one week and I was off and away. The Piccadilly Line Tube was empty, but for airport passengers till about Hammersmith when the Saturday night hordes thronged the cars.
I alighted at Green Park, found an elevator that sped me to the Jubilee Line connection. One long tunnel to cross (not such a tough task) and I was in another elevator and ready to board the train for another three stops to St. John’s Wood from where I hopped into a taxi that practically pulled up as I emerged from the station and dropped me at my doorstep. It couldn’t have been an easier journey.
London is cold but I was happy to be out in the fresh air after 9 plus hours in a steel tube 38,000 feet about mean sea level. Although, mind you, I spent the time without feeling the slightest bit sleepy and watched four great films in-flight: My Old Lady (with Maggie Smith, Kristin-Scott Thomas and Kevin Kine, set in Paris–how can you go wrong?), The Rewrite (with Hugh Grant and Marissa Tomei–a chicflic that is redeemed only by the very watchable Grant and the always delightful Tomei), The Riot Club (set in Oxford, another favorite city in the world, and based on the play Posh). It was powerful, chilling and deeply disturbing and a true must-see. And finally, I watched A Most Wanted Man with Phillip Seymour Hoffman–didn’t get to the end as it was time to alight, but it was riveting.
My friends Raquel and Chris and their darling son Jonas gave me a warm welcome and over hot lemony tea, we caught up briefly. Adrenaline kept doing its thing–and I remained awake and alert although I thought I would be in Zombie Land as it was 2.00 am back in India. I kept thinking how fortunate I was to have found a home again in this grand and very gorgeous Victorian apartment with its spacious rooms and very English detailing. Located at the most famous crosswalk in the world on Abbey Road, I had spent part of a summer here once expecting to see John, Paul, George and Ringo stride across every time I popped onto the balcony that overlooks this spot right across historic Abbey Studios.
I got connected with wifi, informed folks around the world that I had arrived safely and prepared for the morrow. Despite falling asleep at 10.00 pm and having, as I mentioned no sleep en route, I was wide awake at 2. 30 am (8.00 am in Bombay from where I have travelled). Adrenaline is a powerful thing!
Until Tomorrow which promises to be fun-filled and eventful… cheerio All and thanks for following my Blog once again!