London Diary—Jan 2017
Saturday, January 21,
2017
Accomplishing London
To-Do List! And Packing (Yet Again!) Plus Ed Harris at the West End.
Terribly
jetlagged, I awake in a 6-bedded dorm in the London youth hostel on Bolsover
Street at 3. 30 am. I manage some more shut eye, then awake at 5. 30 am. It is
eventually 7.00 am when I drag myself out of bed quietly so as not to awake my
sleeping roomies. It is time for a wash, a shower and a tick of another item
off my To-Do List—Brekkie at the Wolseley Hotel.
Posh Full English
Brekkie in a London Institution:
I find my
way to the bus stop on New Cavendish Street, realizing that I could not have chosen
a better location for 2 nights’ accommodation in London. My office at NYU,
where my cases are stacked, is only a hop, skip and jump away. The YHA is
homely, clean, relatively quiet, safe and central—oh and very reasonably
priced. In the dead of winter, it is still packed solid. Fifty percent of my
roomies are women my age or over! I feel right at home. It is the perfect
solution for the solo traveler. I contemplate the sagacity of my decision to
stay here as I await my bus in the dead quiet of a Saturday morning while it is
still semi-dark. There are a couple of other people waiting with me—I feel the
sense of safety in numbers. In five minutes, a 453 trundles along and on the
top deck, front and center, as is my wont, I am transported along the still
gorgeously illuminated shopping strips of Regent and Oxford Streets, to be put
down at Piccadilly Circus.
Walking
along this iconic road, I am struck by the fact that I have it all to myself. I
pass many familiar landmarks—Waterstones, the bookstore. Fortnum and Mason,
purveyors of fine foods. Across the Road, Burlington House, home of the Royal
Academy of Art. Fancy shops selling fancier goods—Maria Novella perfumes from
Florence, fine cashmere from Scotland, Maille mustards in posh packaging. I get
to the Wolseley Hotel, which every guidebook has extolled as the best value in
the city for a full English breakfast or Afternoon Tea. The latter I have tried
already—a few years ago with my friend Shahnaz and her daughter Azra. It is
time to find out what the fuss is about re. Brekkie. But first, I peruse the
menu pinned to glass cases outside. It is value for money at 18 pounds for the
works: eggs any which way, bacon, sausage, black pudding, tomatoes, mushrooms,
baked beans. But just to be sure I am making the right choice, I pop into the
Ritz next door. I would like to find out what they offer for brekkie and at what
price. I walk through the ritzy pink and green lobby, past Reception and the
utterly grand Palm Court (where Llew and I once were treated to Afternoon Tea
by a family friend) and get to the back Dining Hall where I am handed a menu.
Price for the Full English is an eye-popping 39 pounds. No contest. I will
return to the Wolseley and pig out.
I am seated
courteously by a lovely hostess. I do not have a reservation, but I am early
enough in the day to snag a table for two which I might keep for an hour and a
half. It is enough for me (as I have a full day ahead and much to accomplish).
The waitress wants to know if I would like a newspaper. Yes please, I say.
Which one? she asks. How about The Times? I respond. A copy is promptly placed
before me and, had I already eaten, I’d have had instant indigestion. There is
a full frontal photograph of La Famille Trummmmmphhh! I sit down, place my
order and take in the full printed show. As a mark of protest (on a day when
millions of women would be marching in protest against the new President’s
declared policies), I decide not to read a word about his inauguration (just as
I had refused to watch any of it on TV, the previous day, as I wished to hit
him where it hurts—in the ratings!). I move towards the Op Ed columns and read
what British journos have to say about the tamasha!
Soon enough, my brekkie arrives and
I give myself wholly to the delights of the English table. My only
disappointment is to find streaky (American-style) bacon on my plate where I
adore the English back bacon which is made from Pork Tenderloin. Still, I have
no choice—so gobble it all up, I do, with gusto. I have a decaff cappuccino to
sip in-between mouthfuls and I am a happy camper, for I have fueled myself up
well for a day in which I will probably eat very little else. The black
pudding, by the way, is creamy and delicious. I was asked if I’d like toast and
I had said yes—I got a slice of brown and a slice of white (I did not realize
that I had to pay more for it—I thought it was part of my brekkie platter). No
matter. I decided to pack it up and take it home for a very late lunch or early
supper. In the Wolseley Hotel, I am surrounded by beautiful people. When a very
ostentatiously dressed woman sits beside me, peroxided to the nines, wearing
dangling sparkly jewelry at 8.00 am, I wonder if she is a cross-dresser. All
eyes turn to her as she makes her dramatic entry and waiters pause in homage to
kiss her on both cheeks and call her ‘Darling’. I am enthralled. It turns out
she is not Ru Paul—just another ‘regular’ apparently at the hotel.
Off to Trafalgar
Square for Theater Ticket:
It is about 9.40
when I pay my bill and leave. Piccadilly is slowly coming to life but F&M
is still closed (so I have no opportunity to find out if there are any
leftovers from their post-Xmas sale). I walk towards Haymarket and find my way
to Trafalgar Square. London is so different when it is stripped off humanity.
Only the architecture grabs your eye at this time of day—undisguised, as it
were. Landseer’s Lions at the Nelson Column are slowly roaring to life as
traffic joins them in a slow crescendo. I get to the Trafalgar Studios at 9.55
and chat with a couple of Americans from Minnesota who have come to see their
compatriots (Ed Harris and Amy Madigan in Pulitzer-Prize winning Sam Shephard’s
masterpiece). I have heard a lot of good things about this play (Buried Child) and decide to see if I can
get a single ticket for the evening show. Five minutes later, I am the proud
possessor of one such gem (for 35 pounds). I have a brilliant seat, three rows
from the front. No doubt I shall see some spit fly!
I walk
along Whitehall, past the Horse Guards, who have emerged to begin their duty
for the day—those must be the most photographed horses in the world. My bus comes
along and I take it to Tottenham Court Road and at exactly 10.45, I enter NYU
and get straight to work.
Packing—Again--and
Weighing Suitcases—Again! (And Hopefully for the Last Time!):
The
premises are closed today except for workmen and decorators who are busy in the
lobby. Dave, the Porter, who was expecting me, lets me in. I drag my cases from
the Porter’s Room to the Ground Floor Student Lounge, pull out my weighing
scale, and begin the process of getting everything out (the better to decide what
to discard and what to take back home). I have given myself two hours to
accomplish this daunting task. I throw away a pair of black patent leather
shoes that have seen better days and that were replaced by a new pair I’d
bought just before Christmas from Next on
Oxford Street. I put aside items I can give away as gifts. I wade through
masses of sheets of paper and discard about 60% of them. I give away two books.
I have simply no weight allowance for them. After I rearrange my stuff, I weigh
each case carefully. I can put a pound more in one of them and five pounds more
in the other before I reach full permitted capacity. There will be room for
some food goodies—favorite biscuits, cakes, and my stock of underwear for the
year from M&S. I will have to forego bottles of marmalade and chocolates
for American Airlines is stringent and I have no desire to pay excess baggage
charges. Oh well! At least I had enjoyed them fully while I lived in the
country.
Time to Go Shopping:
I find out
that Dave will remain at his post till 4.00 pm. This leaves me about 3 hours to
get to Oxford Street to the M&S to tackle my To-Buy List. I take the Tube
from Tottenham Court Road to Marble Arch, walk to the department store, pluck
the items off the shelve in the Food Hall (there is an offer on the bikkies—oh
joy!—wish I could take 6 packets). In the Ladies Lingerie section, I find
exactly what I need quite easily. Armed with my buys, I march to the cashier.
Outside, on the street, I made a quick dash into Selfridges for samples of Byredo Pulp perfume—but they have run
out. They direct me instead to Liberty’s which
is a 15 minute walk away. I have the time—but only just! I hussle past
determined shoppers, get to Oxford Circus and take the back street towards
Carnaby Street and enter the lovely Tudor structure that is Liberty’s of London. It is, thankfully, not a wild good chase. I
am smilingly handed my samples. I want to see if I will like the fragrance
enough after a few weeks before I splurge on a whole bottle myself. Silk scarves
and classic perfume—they are my long-enduring weaknesses!
There is
little time to linger. I have no intention of lugging my purchases with me to
Oxford and Essex—I simply must pack them in my suitcases and then lock them
safely away until I am ready to leave London this coming Friday for home. Off
to the Tube station I race for one stop and a brisk walk back to campus. I have
a few minutes of uncertainty as Dave does not immediately respond when I
buzz—he is somewhere in the building locking up for the weekend. I call
Reception but I get the machine. I am about to leave, having waited for a full
ten minutes with growing dejection, when he appears and opens the door to me!!!
I stash my buys, rearrange and lock my cases up and say goodbye to him. I will
be back or the last time in a few days to retrieve them and leave.
Off for a Nap:
The good
thing about staying so close to campus is that I can nip back into bed for a
nap. It is 4.00 pm which is 9.30 pm in
Bombay and jetlag is making me sluggish. If I am to stay awake through the
play, I need a nap. I walk back to my empty room, get into bed, place my alarm
for 6. 15 pm and try to get a few zzzzs. But, annoyingly, sleep eludes me
completely. After an hour, just before the alarms goes off, I get out of bed
and make myself a sandwich with the Wolseley’s toast and some Waitrose onion
jam that I love. Fifteen minutes later, I am on the bus and off to Trafalgar
Studios where I reach in about 20 minutes, well in time for the play.
Buried Child at the West End:
Ed Harris, one of America’s
iconic actors, is sitting on stage smoking when I take my seat. He coughs
occasionally as he gets into characters long before the curtain rises. For the
next three hours, we learn about the misgivings of a dysfunctional family in
middle America—the kind they say voted for Trump! It is a dark comedy with a
seriously stark denouement that leave the audience staggering. Excellent
performances, a brilliant script, perfect timing make it memorable. It is a
brilliant night at the theater. It is worth every penny of my money.
Back home on the Bus:
It is about
10. 30pm when I stand at the bus stop at Trafalgar Square which is still
buzzing with Saturday night revelers. In five minutes, I am in my bus and ten
minutes later, I am walking through the streets to get to my dorm. I am sleepy
and can barely keep my eyes open. It is with difficulty that I stay awake as I
brush my teeth and then get straight into bed.
It has been
a marvelous return to my favorite city—a homecoming in every sense of the term.
I am happy that I am making the most of every second and still ticking items
off that disappearing Bucket List.
Until
tomorrow, cheerio…
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