Been in London 36 hours and only now have the chance to sit
and reflect on the blur of travel that gave way to an odd alchemy of the
complacency of jet lag alongside a rush of adrenalin. I’ve just dropped my
daughter off, in the dark, to a new university in a BIG city, quietly
celebrated my birthday with her over a couple of pub pints, two glasses of
Prosecco and heaping plates of Sunday roast, lamb and beef to be specific. It’s
also exactly one month since my mother died.
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| Regents U in the dark |
Walking halfway round London and hours since lunch, I
cracked open my laptop along with a petit bottle of Cotes du Rhone Villages, a
wedge of brie, a brick of very dark chocolate and handful of dry-roasted
almonds. Even the tiniest, most-ramshackle appearing market is stocked with
good wine, cheese and chocolate croissants for less than a bag of Doritos and a
liter of soda back home. Do NOT judge a book by its cover. I learned that
lesson traveling a long time ago. Exploring markets provides great insight into
a place and its people. Not yet wanting to return to my lovely but now lonely
airbandb room (Autumn spent last night with me) in a Victorian row house near
Camden, I overshot the wrought-iron gate and red door to walk around the block
– but not much farther in the pitch dark pierced only by a moon sliver at 8 pm.
I reveled in the variety of halal grocers and storefront cafes, the
worldwide-travel consultant. pharmacy, optician and very British pub; all just
round my corner.
This is everyday, working-class, immigrant-enclave London
and much more interesting than polished, populated tourist spots. My host, Tom,
is a gardener, cook, food writer and teacher. He rides his bike to the school
down the block, where he teaches gardening and tends his vegetables, fruits,
herbs, chickens and bees. His wife, Larushka, is a film critic. Autumn found an
unopened pack of DVDS in our room with a note from the BAFTAs (British Academy
of Film and Television Arts). As
an Anglophile, she loved that. With their young daughters, my hosts live a life
very similar to mine: creative parents balancing freelance gigs, yet able to maintain
flexible hours and be at home with the kids. We had a very affirming chat about
our lifestyles. Tom sent Autumn off to her dorm with a small pot of his honey.
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| English breakfast |
Autumn studying fashion design for a semester at Regent’s
University in Regent’s Park sparked this journey. Her drop-off date coincided
with a big birthday and I began to plot. Well,
I could get her settled and feel good about it, then jet off to … Yes, at
60, this is a bucket-list trip: London, Istanbul, New Delhi and Kathmandu. Makes
perfect sense to me, but the ATT&T guy gave me a blank look and asked me
why such random places. His worldview revolves around where ATT&T has
service. Mine encompasses crossroads, culture, spirituality, art and food.
Being crammed like sardines into some unknown airline,
Wamos, after booking what seemed like an economy-step-up flight on Norwegian,
was a nightmare … after a flight from Cincinnati to Chicago and a five-hour
layover. We spent the seven hours bumper-to-bumper in shoulders with too-late a
warning to load the app for any entertainment. Crazy, blue-haired London
Lindsey, a sculptor fresh from a month in Mexico and our seatmate, was livid.
She mostly slept from the pill she took, but we managed to learn a lot in the
last hour. Autumn coveted her vintage mod ‘60s dress. Lindsey had worked in a
vintage shop, but was fired … for not showing up. “You really do need to work
for yourself,” I affirmed. She’d received a big commission and rewarded herself
with a month in Mexico, knowing it was time to come home when so many other
travelers, mostly, men, spent hours talking about their travels and never even
asking her name. “I was sick of the complacency.” She shared a few more details
I did not want my daughter, off on her own,
to hear. Lindsey is 10 years older and wiser. Now she’s out of money and had a
piece of art to make. Nonetheless, she was the ONE bright spot on the flight.
Our taste-free, gluten-free meals were not redeeming. I am still working out
the tight spots in my body, even with walking miles over the last
day-and-a-half, from such close quarters. I’ve written Norwegian, who texted us
the night before of the change, that I will NOT return on that crap airline.
We did manage to sleep a bit. My husband had ordered me a
trtl pillow, really a fleece scarf with support boning, and Autumn had supplied
an eye mask. Both helped.
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| View inside the White Tower |
We de-boarded, easily
negotiated passport control – Autumn
needed a student visa – and an empty customs, then grabbed a much-needed cup of
coffee before purchasing train tickets. One change and a 20-minute walk (with
luggage, mind you) later, we arrived at our home away from home. Tom graciously
had the room ready early and offered us a reviving cup of loose-leaf Assam tea.
We washed up, regrouped and headed off for a full English breakfast for 5.5
pounds down the street and the Tower of London, missed on our last trip and a
birthday wish. We purchased Oyster cards for the tube and acquired 2-for-1
tower admission with our train tickets. The cashier warned that, on the
downside, we only had 90 minutes, but on the upside, it wouldn’t be as crowded.
“We close at 4:30 because, you know, it’s
the tower, and things happen after dark.” We were mystified (later learning
that 4:30 IS compete darkness) and opted to strategize to complete our mission.
The priorities, in their order, were torture, crown jewels, executions and
suits of armor. They were impressive. My God, the theme for this village inside
the walls seemed to be riches, power, Christianity, offing your enemies and
building a fortress around it. Some things don’t change.
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| Executioner's mask |
I was stunned that so many of the crown jewels, mostly
swords and scepters, were crafted in 1661, the same year my Quaker ancestor
published a small, but powerful chastisement of the court of Charles II and its
excesses. British civil war destroyed Charles I and many of the jewels,
re-crafted for Charles II’s return. Interesting parallel and one not so far off
from today’s one percenters.
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| Lively crowd @ Old King's Head |
From the Tower, we ambled along the Thames, crossing at
London Bridge, turning down a narrow alley to the Old King’s Head Tavern, a
favorite we’d found five years ago. Filled with male sports fans cheering at
soccer scores, we sipped a pint as the place burgeoned at 5 pm. Heading back on
the tube, we visited an M and S (Marks and Spencer) market between under- and
over-ground stops. We picked up salmon and cream cheese, salty potato crackers,
prosciutto, grapes and two amazing power-food salads for something like 10
pounds, about $13. We kept ourselves up as long as possible, almost midnight,
then settled in for a slumber of the dead.
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| Camden memorabilia |
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| Adapted Doc Martens |
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| Sunday roast |
We ambled home with happy bellies, trying not to think about
the separation that was about to happen. We napped longer than we should have,
collected all of Autumn’s worldly belonging in two suitcases and marched off to
the tube to discover the route she plotted was disabled. We rerouted, making
more changes and schlepping those cases up and down so many fights of stairs.
Now I understand why my sister can’t bring her son with cerebral palsy to
Europe. Only some stations have lifts. Able-bodied, we persevered, disembarking
at Baker Street and the Sherlock Holmes Statue and venturing into Regent’s
Park, home of the university, in the dark. There, I left Autumn with two room
mates and (my) stifled tears.
We’re both off on solo adventures with may gifts to collect, yet parting
is such sweet sorrow.
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