A Spontaneous Saturday--Bastille Day, National Gallery, Hog Roast

Saturday, July 13, 2013:

London

           

Saturday Sans Plan:

            Things seemed to go particularly badly for me today. Pre-dawn wake-ups (today at 4. 50 am after which I forced myself to go back to sleep and then wake at 6. 10 am) means that I feel extremely drowsy mid-afternoon and can barely stand, forget about trying to force my eyes open.

I did a bit of work on my PC, then washed, dressed, had a muesli breakfast while watching BBC’s Breakfast show and began to look forward to Saturday Kitchen with James Martin which begins at 10 am. Meanwhile, when I pulled the battery out of my camera to charge it, I discovered that it would not fit into my US adaptor. Fortunately, Currys, the digital people, have a store at Holborn Circus—a trip downstairs would be in order. But wouldn’t you just know it? Since lawyer-centric Holborn comes to a virtual commercial standstill at the weekends, Currys was closed—even on a Saturday. I crossed the street to Blacks who stock travel supplies—they had no adaptor, but the sales assistant suggested I “try Argos, Miss” (It has been a long time since I have been addressed as “Miss”, so I felt flattered). So Argos came to the rescue and with the nice Indian assistant helping me out there, I was well equipped to re-charge my camera battery and add to my photo collection.

            Back home, I watched Saturday Kitchen with astonishment at the amount of weight James Martin has put on in four years—he used to be cute and sexy and slim when I used to watch his show while I lived in London. Accompanying him was Rick Stein showing viewers how to make a Bhaji, if you please—an Indian breakfast dish he claims he learned in India. He served it with chappatis topped with a fried egg for breakfast! Other than the chappatis, I could find nothing Indian in that Indian breakfast. Needless to say, I was disappointed—more so because the promised Coffee-Walnut Cake (my favorite) was never demonstrated step-by step although the completed cake was tantalizingly shown several times. 

            At 11. 30 am, I decided to investigate, by means of Journey Planner, how I could get to the Horniman Museum by bus. Once I had figured it out, I realized it would take one and a half hour each way. It was already too late in the day to set out and decided to postpone the trip to Monday. First things First, I thought: Let’s get some work done at my office at NYU. So I stepped out into the sun and the startling heat (thankfully it was not humid) when I discovered that I had misplaced my clip-on sunglasses at the Royal Academy of Arts yesterday for that was where I distinctly remember last having them on. I went back upstairs, did a thorough search of my bag and my trousers’ pockets and drew a blank. I could call the RA and find out if someone had turned them in to the Lost and Found (they hadn’t) or I could simply go to a pharmacy and find another pair. I was deeply despondent by this time for nothing seemed to be going right.

            The bus to Bloomsbury trundled up soon enough. I walked briskly to Bedford Square but Vincent, the Weekend Porter on duty, did not know me and needed to confirm my credentials before permitting me to use office facilities. A quick call to one of my former London colleagues and that hiccup was sorted. I descended into the basement computer lab and spent the next one hour working: printing and editing some text and trying to print out a chapter that has been reviewed by the editors and that needs to be reworked by the end of this month for it has a strict publication deadline. The printer worked well initially then something happened, and as so often occurs with these machines that have minds all of their own, it simply stopped functioning. Still, I had managed to get a sheaf of material printed out—which means I will be intensely busy in the next few days getting some solid work accomplished.

            By 1.30, I had completed my work and stepped into the Spec Savers on Tottenham Court Road to buy myself a replacement clip on-pair of sunglasses. I was informed by the sales assistant that such things are not manufactured in the UK and can only be custom-made by a private optometrist/optician (for a bomb, no doubt). Disappointed, I stepped into Boots pharmacy next door—and hey presto, there they were and on sale too for ten pounds!  I snatched a pair eagerly and stepped out on to the street vastly relieved at being shaded from the mounting glare.

Reading Festival at Trafalgar Square:      

Then, I was on the Tube to Charing Cross intending to poke around the Reading Festival at Trafalgar Square which was crawling with students. Unfortunately, the demographic focus was adult literacy and although the place was stuffed with school kids and some events were scheduled on the stage, there was nothing to hold my interest.

An Afternoon at the National Gallery:

After picking up a few book marks, I stepped into the café at the National Gallery which seemed like the most sensible place to be on an afternoon in which the mercury climbed to a steady 90 plus degrees! There I ate my ox tongue sandwich and took a bit of foot rest before joining folks for the start of the 2.30 pm guided tour given by someone named Carly. The National Gallery is one of my favorite places in the whole wide world and something of a second home to me as I know my way around it almost as well as I do the Metropolitan Museum in New York. This is what Carly showed in her hour-long tour:

1. The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian by the brothers Antonio del Pollaiuolo and Piero del Pollaiuolo

2. Diana in her Lair by Titian

3. The Ambassadors by Hans Holbein

4. Queen Charlotte by Thomas Lawrence

5. The Bathers at Asniers by Georges Seurat.

It was a good tour—but the galleries were noisy and crowded. Everyone wanted to beat the heat by finding refuge in its air-conditioned interiors. It finished at 3. 30 pm and since the next tour was at 4.00, I had half an hour in which to investigate the special exhibition entitled “Saints Alive” by Michael Landy. It was a truly bizarre show in which iconic Old Master works on the portrayal of saints from the National Gallery’s permanent collection are taken by the artist and given a new twist. Landy chose portraits of martyred saints and using the concept of the mechanical wheel as in kinetic art of the 1970s, mangled the originals so completely as to create moving sculpture and mechanical installations.  For example, he took Lucas Cranach’s Saints Genevieve and Appollina and created a sculpture in which the figure pulls out her teeth as the tortured saint had hers forcibly removed. Similarly, St. Jerome, Saint Catherine of Alexandria, St. Francis of Assissi and others were subjected to the same weird treatment. Thanks to the film that accompanies the show, I was able to make a great deal of sense of the artist’s vision and objective but I must admit that I did not find it even remotely appealing.

At 4.00 pm, I joined Carly’s Highlights Tour again. This is what she showed to a much smaller group on her second round:

1. The Wilton Diptych

2. The Origin of the Milky Way by Jacomo Tintoretto

3. Mr and Mrs William Hallet by Thomas Gainsborough

4. Autumnal View of Het Steen by Peter Paul Reubens

5. Bridge over Water Lily Pond at Giverny by Claude Monet

            The tour concluded at 5. 00 pm and Carly was kind enough to introduce me to Tania at the Audio Guide Desk who said that since I was a docent at the Met, she would gladly permit me to use the audio guide, free of charge, if I showed up while she was on duty. I was thrilled as I hurried to the bus stop to get back to Holborn, shower, dress and leave for the Hog Roast to which I was invited at St. Paul’s

Hog Roast at St. Paul’s Cathedral:

            Every year, Year Eight students of St. Paul’s School (attached to St. Paul’s Cathedral), have a Send-Off Barbecue at attached Amen Court (designed by the great Sir Christopher Wren in 1672). These young lads are choristers—they form the boys’ choir that sings at all the great events that the Cathedral organizes. Over the years, I have had my favorites—but by the next year when I return, they have disappeared. Their voices crack and they must leave for more grown-up pastures. This year, since I was in town, I was invited by my friends Bishop Michael and his wife Cynthia to attend. I arrived at their place at 6. 15 pm and found the Court already alive with happy families—parents, siblings and the proud young graduates themselves were present around the marquees set up on the lawn. There was even a dog called Jacob, clearly in Doggy Heaven from all the scraps the kids were feeding him.  

It was great to see my friends Michael and Cynthia and their son Aidan again and to gab non-stop as we always do. Since I stayed at their place less than three months ago, I felt as if I had never left. When we stepped outside, into a still warm evening, Cynthia introduced me to a number of interesting parents including Saro from Kerala whose Year Eight chorister son Kevin had done the Reading in church on Friday and, as I could see then, had been bristling with nerves. Eventually, we got down to some sipping (orange juice for me—no lager in sight) and eating: pulled pork (it was, after all, a Hog Roast), red cabbage coleslaw, a green salad, quiche. I avoided the bun (am trying to eliminate carbs in an attempt to lose ‘cruise weight’) and then returned to Cynthia’s table with our plates—so much easier to eat roasted meat with a real fork and knife.

Back outside, we circulated some more. I met the Music Director Andrew Carwood and the Deputy Head of the School, Clive Marriot—before the speeches began. And what lovely speeches they were too--funny and moving at the same time! They boys were given a really warm send-off with so many sincere Thank-yous mentioned all around. Their mentors were thanked and their parents and their siblings—and all those responsible for having provided them with the unique opportunity of serving as choir boys in one of the world’s greatest houses of worship. Most go off now to prestigious boarding schools around the country already having achieved more than most boys their age have done. I had a lump in my throat at the farewell speeches, I have to say, although I did not know any of them personally. It is always touching to perceive the innocent promise of youth untouched by the trials that the world presents. That’s why I have always loved graduation ceremonies.

“Choc Ices” followed for dessert after the speechifying. I stayed long enough to meet Kitty, the Colcloughs’ present house guest whose dad John I happen to have met on an earlier visit to London. She is a vivacious New Yorker ready to start grad school in London in the fall. We chatted for a long while and then I left and came ‘home’ to High Holborn ready to drop into bed after what had started off as a lousy day but improved considerably as it progressed.        

Rediscovering Westminster-Whitehall and Discovering Freemasonry

Friday, July 12, 2013

London:

Rediscovering Westminster-Whitehall and Discovering Freemasonry   

I awoke at 5. 30 am—not quite in time for the opening of the Chancery Lane Tube station which lies just beneath my window, but close enough. Since I could not get back to sleep, I continued writing my journal, caught up with email and before I knew it, it was almost 7. 30 am—time for me to get out of bed, wash, dress and get to 8.00 am Mass at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Boarding the 242 bus, I got off two stops later.  I was sorry that a late-night kept my friends Cynthia and Michael away from church—but I will see them soon. The usual left side door through which I enter St. Paul’s Cathedral was closed and I was confused. Had they changed the timings of the Eucharistic service? I walked around to the Crypt and café entrance but still drew a blank. Just when I wondered what was up, I tried the other doors and there it was—the one on the extreme right was open (I learned later that the left side one has been creaking terribly and disturbing the service). Mass was held in one of the side chapels—the cathedral has so many, they can take their pick. This one was decorated with one of the brilliant mosaics for which the space is noted and Mass was said by the lovely young pastor named Sarah who has always struck me as serene and very chic—she is a fraction too soft-spoken, however, and I could barely hear her. Mass was over in half an hour and I hopped on a bus and got back home in exactly ten minutes! Unbelievable!

Breakfast and Other Miscellaneous Chores:

           Breakfast was Sainsbury Fruit and Nut Muesli that I soaked last night in a yogurt and milk mixture—it was wonderfully soggy and creamy (just the way I love it) and very delicious but much of the liquid had been absorbed by the cereal and needed to be thinned with more milk. It reminded me of the Swiss muesli I had grown to love on our Baltic cruise. While munching, I watched the BBC’s Breakfast Show and discovered that Kenneth Branagh in currently starring in a production of Macbeth in Manchester—a show that will be beamed live by the National Theater to cinemas around the UK on July 20. I resolved to ask my friend Rosemary if she would be interested in going to see it with me.

            A few minutes later, my friend Bishop Michael called to invite me to a barbecue at St. Paul’s School in the evening. Since I had no plans and was keen to meet him and wife Cynthia, I accepted the invitation with pleasure. But you know the saying: when it rains, it pours. Five minutes later, Rosemary called to find out if I would like to accompany her to see the Summer Exhibition 2013 at the Royal Academy for the Arts (RA) at Piccadilly where she is a member and can take guests in for free. It was a late-night opening at the RA (until 9.00 pm) and she could only go in the evenings after work. How about a gad about the show, she said, followed by a drink and a long chat? I explained my predicament: Although I had just accepted another invitation, I was keen to join her in taking advantage of the late-evening closing. I resolved to bow out of the barbecue as I would be seeing my friends tomorrow evening for the Hog Roast to which they had also invited me earlier. That sorted, I became excited about my evening plans.

            Sitting at my PC catching up with email and doing a bit of research to find out where I could spend my day (the Freemason’s Library and Museum drew my curiosity) took the better part of the next hour; but by 10.00am, I pretty much knew what I wanted to do: I have resolved to go through the DK Eyewitness Guide to London page by page, as thoroughly as I had covered Paris using the same series of guide books last year for the City of Light. Well, on browsing through the book, I decided that Westminster and Whitehall was where I would begin. Not that I haven’t scoured these places before, mind you; it’s simply that with the book in hand, I am led to secret corners and hidden enclaves that one would usually bypass—and it was those that I looked forward to discovering. Using a second book entitled City Secrets London, I found three venues that were in the same vicinity as Whitehall-Westminster (The Cabinet War Rooms—which I have explored earlier; Banqueting House--which I have also explored before and love; and The Horse Guards) and armed with my Oyster card, bus and Tube maps, city map, phone, camera, bottle of water and sandwich (lettuce, ham and cheese on multigrain bread), off I went for a most interesting ramble.

Rambling in Westminster-Whitehall:

            I took the Tube to Westminster after making one change and found myself gazing up at Big Ben Tower—it was a most exciting experience, this first glimpse of the Tower in this unexpected fashion. From that point on, I could not stop clicking. I have realized that I have started to look at the world, during my travels, with a camera’s eye: trying to figure out the best angles; how to create the cleverest composition; how to include the most unusual background, etc. And this visual dimension brings me enhanced pleasure in discovering new sites. So I photographed Boadicea, one of England’s earliest queens, astride her chariot on the Embankment, the London Eye on the South Bank, Embankment Pier from where tourists board vessels to cruise the Thames and the new Scotland Yard buildings right opposite the Tower designed by Norman Shaw. I requested passers-up to take my picture on Westminster Bridge with the clock tower in the background and, likewise, I took pictures for so many people who requested my assistance. I discovered from my book that Big Ben is named after Sir Benjamin Hall, Chief Commission of Works when the bell was hung in 1858. Since that date in the hoary Victorian past, it has kept time for the nation with its distinctive musical bongs. 

Perusing Parliament Square:

         My walk took me to Parliament Square where I photographed each of the heavyweight statesmen whose sculptured likenesses decorate its periphery: Winston Churchill, Jan Christian Smuts of South Africa, David Lloyd George, Peel, Derby, Nelson Mandela—some were concealed by scaffolding (such as Lincoln).  Parliament Square is abloom with vivid purple lavender growing lushly in raised flowerbeds and photographing the monuments (Big Ben, St. Margaret’s Church, Westminster Abbey) against the fragrant fronds buzzing with drunken bees was a real delight.

I crossed the street back to architect Barry’s Houses of Parliament with their flamboyant carvings of creatures, real and imagined. Barry designed the buildings after the original structures of Whitehall Palace (as it was then known) were destroyed by a fire. Only Westminster Hall and a small tower (known as Jewel Tower which is across the street) remains of the medieval buildings. I arrived at the Sovereign’s Entrance where I posed for a picture: it is the only entrance through which the monarch is permitted to enter and not without asking for and receiving the permission of the House. The Queen goes through elaborate protocol twice a year when she is invited to attend Parliament—she is never at liberty to go there whenever she pleases in the way that any of us, lesser mortals, might do!

            I was disappointed to find that Auguste Rodin’s monumental sculpture The Burghers of Calais that usually decorates the park at Westminster Palace Embankment is traveling. Its plinth looked wan and empty without its bronzed Frenchmen. Crossing the street, I spied a giant sculpture which looked like the work of Henry Moore on the grass near Jewel Towel—which I also circled. When I had purchased the London Explorer Pass, four years ago, at the time of Chriselle’s visit in early 2009, she and I had climbed Jewel Tower and viewed the exhibitions inside. Past Jewel Tower, I reached tiny St. Margaret’s Church, a real jewel of a place with a rich history that is often overshadowed by the towering (literally!) reputation of Westminster Abbey next door. It was in this church that Henry VIII married Katherine of Aragon, his Spanish first wife—a magnificent stained glass window above the altar bears witness to this event. Here too Winston Churchill married the love of his life, Clementine Rozier, and here Walter Raleigh (he who had laid down his cloak over a puddle for Queen Elizabeth I to step over) lies buried just near the altar. The gilded Tudor altar piece is simply stunning. I was fortunate enough to catch the Free exhibition entitled “Picture the Procession” which featured photos of Westminster Abbey and the Tower of London brought together by Westminster Adult Education Services. In the case alongside, there were the church marriage register open to the entry for the Churchills. 

            Serpentine queues outside Westminster Abbey had to be seen to be believed. I am glad I wasn’t one of the tourists getting hotter by the minute as the mercury climbed to the mid-80s today—28 degrees in London measurements. I peeled off my jacket and continued my walk to Dean’s Yard, the lovely quiet patch of park which one enters through twin towers known as The Sanctuary, a medieval safe-place for those escaping the law. Dean’s Yard is characterized by structures in varying architectural styles from Tudor to Baroque. Across the street, the Beaux-Arts style Central Hall—today the Central Methodist Church—stands proud and pretty. I crossed the street to make a right on Great George Street past the Cabinet War Rooms which City Secrets London describes as one of London’s best-preserved and most atmospheric places—and I agree. It is where Winston Churchill and his Cabinet ministers holed up during World War II as they strategised with Roosevelt on how to defeat Hitler—Clementine Churchill who refused to be parted from her husband during this challenging time has her own little bedroom down there and very feminine it is too compared to the utilitarian spaces of the chaps.    

            I hung a Left on Whitehall and reached the Cenotaph which was shrouded in renovation scaffolding: “We’re Getting Ready to Remember” it said. On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, there is a moving ceremony held here each year (Armistice Day in the UK, Veterans Day in the US) when poppies truly come into their own as the flower of Remembrance and the Queen lays wreaths to remember the fallen of the two World Wars. This monument designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens is one of my favorite in the city and after seeing the monument last year at Thiepval in Picardy, France, that he designed to remember the Missing of the Somme, I have even more affection for it.

            Almost opposite the Cenotaph is the entrance to 10 Downing Street, residence of Britain’s Prime Minister. Tourists swarmed around for a glimpse and a few lucky ones with pass-invitations were in the actual precincts that are heavily guarded. I managed some rather surreptitious pictures but that was it. The street gets its name from Sir George Downing (1623-80) who bought land near Whitehall Palace and built a street of houses of which four survive. When King George II gave No. 10 to then PM Sir Horace Walpole in 1732, it became the customary residence of the country’s Prime Minister—and maybe the most photographed stoop in the world.

            Across the street once more, I moved towards Banqueting House with the intention of using its facilities—only to be informed that the place was closed to the public in preparation for a huge exhibition that is slated to open on August 14. I adore the Peter Paul Reubens’ ceiling inside this Inigo Jones double-galleried structure and its poignant history (Charles I walked to his execution through this building that he had constructed in honor of his father James I who is featured in Reuben’s painting) always brings a lump to my throat.

            Across the Street, the Horse Guards had their share of attention—everyone who is anyone has a picture in front of one of the horses at the entrance to the vast compound which is the venue for much showing off during the ceremony known as the Trooping of the Color.  

            Then I was across the street again at Trafalgar Studios inquiring about tickets for The Hot House starring Simon Russel Beale who I have seen on screen and whom I would like to see on stage. Tickets are available, it seems, so all I have to do is consult my calendar. My feet were aching my this time, so I hopped into the Tube (the Black Northern Line) to get to Covent Garden after walking underground for what seemed like endless miles! My idea was to get to a museum that had intrigued me when I had begun some searching on the internet—the Freemason’s Library and Museum at Great Queen Street in Holborn off Kingsway.

The Freemason’s Library and Museum:

            Knowing nothing about the Freemasons except what feeds on rumor, I thought it would be a good idea to find out more by visiting the beautiful towering building on the corner of Long Acre and Great Queen Streets in Holborn. Their website informed me that free guided tours were available throughout the day and I was quite excited to get there in time for the 2. 00 pm one.  I was given a Visitor’s Pass upon entry and told to sign the book. Instructed to climb one flight of stairs to the Library/Museum, a guide would arrive in a few minutes to lead us on the tour, I was told.

My first impression of the building was one of awe. The walk up the stairs is majestic: wide marble balustrades, thick star-patterned carpeting, beautiful chandeliers—they led to a wide corridor that led to the library filled with showcases crammed with all sorts of items from badges and medals to china. The number of visitors swelled by the second—many were French, judging from their conversation and the women appeared more enthusiastic than the men. The guide arrived in a few minutes—a short stocky chap with a bald head, very reminiscent of Mr. Pickwick. If I thought the tour would be edifying, I was sadly mistaken. For one thing, the guide had such a heavy Cockney accent, I could barely understand what he was saying. Secondly, he said nothing at all about Freemasonry—so I was more mystified than ever. Frequent references to royal family members who have served as Grand Marshalls were made and their oil-painted portraits hang upon the walls of the grand rooms that comprise the interior. It seems that Prince Edward is the current Grand Marshall and the longest-reigning one in its history.

What was really special about this visit for me was the magnificent interior of this building. Its rooms are simply gorgeous: the ceilings exuberantly painted, the marbled paved corridors palatial in appearance, black wood paneled rooms, so rare as the trees have become extinct in Tasmania from where it was transported. In the Memorial Room to the Wars, there is  a beautiful chest with a scroll containing the names of all Freemasons who fell in battle. It sits just below a splendid stained glass window that is a tribute to the men and women of the armed services. There are ornamental doors so heavy—each side weighs over a ton and half—that with magical engineering can be pushed open with a single finger! Throne-like chairs sit in sprawling halls until finally you arrive at the Grand Temple with more gold-throned chairs and an exquisite ceiling. Overall, this is not a place in which to learn anything about the Lodges and their doings—it is not called a secret society for nothing, I suppose. But it is a great place in which to marvel at the amount of money that Freemasons seem to possess and the generosity with which they give to their Lodges.

I don’t know whether it is jetlag or all the travel I have done in the past couple of weeks but by 3.00 pm, I was nodding off in the Grand Temple while the guide droned on unintelligibly—so I decided to abandon my plans to go to my office at New York University at Bloomsbury to print out some material. Instead, I took the Tube from Holborn station to Chancery Lane for a much-needed nap. I usually shut my eyes for 20 minutes exactly but this time, I slept for more than an hour. I jumped up at 4. 15 pm to shower and get dressed for my appointment with my friend Rosemary whom I know as “Roz”.

Summer Exhibition 2013 at the Royal Academy of Arts in Piccadilly:

            Jumping back on the Tube, I could not believe that I reached Piccadilly in less than 20 minutes—the convenience of my Holborn location never ever fails to fill me with amazement and delight at the ease with which I can get around and the little time it takes to get anywhere. No wonder I had loved living in this building and feel so grateful to my friends who have let me have their flat in their absence.

            Piccadilly was strung with purple banners proclaiming the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee—I have yet to make sense of it (still thought it finished last year). And the entrance to Fortnum and Mason sports a green-covered tea set—some allusion to the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, perhaps? I will have to find out. Into the lovely quadrangle of the Royal Academy of Arts (RA) I went for the annual Summer Exhibition which has been held here for 200 years. Every year, artists are invited to submit their work which is then judged by a panel comprising members of the Royal Academy. If selected, their work is shown during this exhibition that attracts huge crowds.

I was delighted to see my friend Roz again. We paused for a quick cuppa in the café at the entrance before entering the fabulous mansion—one of the few 18^th century London mansions that survived the blitz. The rooms are sumptuously decorated with lavish use of gold leaf on ceiling moldings We spent the next couple of hours simply enthralled by the entries. There was every conceivable form of art on display—from paintings and sculpture to wacky installations and architectural models. Some of the work was hugely impressive and much of it was very affordable indeed—especially if you remember that these artists, twenty years from now, might be very significant names indeed. However, brilliant though the show was, it seemed endless and after traipsing through London for miles and after a long day at work, both Roz and I were ready for a sit-down in the Members’ Café. With her glass of wine and my beer, we had a lively chinwag and caught up on all our news. We also checked calendars and made plans to return to the RA for the “Mexico” exhibition which undoubtedly features the work of Frieda Kahlo and Diego Rivera which I would love to see. Meanwhile, Roz was very enthusiastic to join me in seeing Branagh in Macbeth—so we will be headed there on July 20 after she gets us tickets. And we have plans to see some London theater together. What a great month I have in store!         

It was after 10.30 pm when I got home to fix myself a dinner of Brocolli and Cheddar Quiche and a small salad washed down with Ainsley Herriot’s Spicy Butternut Squash Soup. At 11.00 pm, when I was frankly nodding of, I switched the light off.

Back in a Blighty State of Mind

Thursday, July 11, 2013
London

With apologies to the late Frank Sinatra, I have slipped effortlessly into a Blighty State of Mind. Although I arrived in Holborn in the wee hours of the morning (just past midnight to be exact) and it is almost midnight now--which means I have been a Londoner again for less than 24 hours--I feel as if I never left.
But for all those folks who follow me religiously and have circled their calendars to begin reading my Blog on July 11, I have to beg your patience for just a few hours. I am tired and sleepy and suffering mind fog. So please hold your horses for just a few hours longer. I promise to add to this installment first thing tomorrow morning.

Hello London! Getting Settled in Again

            Our Baltic Sea cruise was incredible—but the end really sucked. Arriving at Kastrup airport by 9. A00 am, Llew and I had intended to simply stash our baggage in the Left Luggage Lockers and take the train into the city to visit the National Museum—no such luck! We discovered that city trains had gone on strike just that morning. We did not want to take chances getting into the city on the Metro in case they too decided to strike—we’d have been well and truly stuck then and unable to get back for our flights—Llew’s to the States at 4. 30 pm, mine to London at 8. 50 pm. I tried to get on to an earlier Easyjet flight to London but discovered that the cost of making the change was more than the cost of a new ticket! Furthermore, my flight was delayed by an hour, so I only arrived in London at 10. 25 pm. Fortunately, I cleared Immigration in a jiffy (most passengers were in the EU/UK queue and there was no one in the “All Other Passports” section). Yesss!

              Although I arrived at Gatwick airport at 10. 30 pm, got the 11. 17 pm. train to Farringdon station and took a black cab to High Holborn (where I arrived at 12. 15 pm) and it is now close to midnight—which means that I have been in the UK for less than 24 hours—I have slipped so easily into a London State of Mind that it seems as if I had never left. Tim was still up when I rang the bell to enter my former building but because Barbara had retired for the day, I tip-toed into my room and fell right into bed. It was late, I had spent a boring day at Kastrup airport, had dozed on the flight and was ready to call it a night myself. It was about 1.00 am by the time I slept.

                Not surprisingly, I awoke at 6. 30 am, did some reading in bed and sat up when Barbara knocked on my door with bed tea! What luxury! And how kind of her. I joined her in the living room and caught up a bit—it was so great to see her again. Between Tim and her, I learned how the land lay! They connected me to wifi, showed me how the TV, microwave, kitchen hob, coffee maker and toaster worked and left me a set of keys. In due course, Tim provided us with croissants, butter, jam and coffee. Around this time, I became conscious of a headache and felt awfully drowsy. Nothing a Tylenol wouldn’t cure, I thought, as I popped one in and felt a desperate need for a shut eye.

                Well, I slept for a solid hour but my headache was history! The rest of the morning flew by as I attacked the first priorities on my To-Do List: Buy Lebara SIM card for my UK phone (I got this at the W.H. Smith store at Holborn Circus), bought a Top Up Lebara voucher at Sainsbury (also at Holborn Circus) where I picked up a sausage roll for a snack lunch, topped up my Oyster Card with one-month’s worth of unlimited bus and Tube rides in Zones 1 and 2 (from the kind man at the Chancery Lane Tube station) and crossed the street to get back when I met Arben, the concierge of the building, who always gives me a royal Welcome Back when he sees me and makes me feel like a million dollars. He was aware that I will staying at Tim and Barbara’s for the next few days and he asked me to make sure to reach out to him should I need absolutely anything. I promised I would!    

                 Tim and Barbara were all packed up and ready to leave when I returned from running my errands and were off in minutes. I showered and spent the next one hour on the phone with my Dad in Bombay (as I was speaking to him after more than a week) and with Llew. I spent the next two hours catching up with email and informing London friends that I was back on Blighty soil again. Luckily, Chris, the friend I was supposed to see later in the evening in order to pick up the keys from him to his flat at St. John’s Wood, where I will be staying next, responded super quickly. He would meet me at the apartment at 8.00 pm. At 5. 40 pm, I left my flat and took the bus to St. John’s Wood, with the idea of passing through Central London and absorbing it all. From the 8 (which was terminating at Holborn Tube Station), I jumped into a 98 and got off at Marble Arch—Oxford Street, as usual, was crawling with shoppers swarming like ants. There is agreat big purple banner at the intersection of Regent’s Street proclaiming the 60^th year of Elizabeth’s reign (1953-2013)—I thought last year was the Diamond Jubilee! Am I in a time warp? I then connected to the 139 bus in which I rode all the way to the famous Beatles Crosswalk on Abbey Road for my friends Raquel and Chris live in a building right opposite it! Who’d have thunk it????

Exploring The Beatles’ Abbey Road Studio:

            

           Since I was several minutes early for my appointment with Raquel’s husband, Chris, I watched dozens of tourists literally stop traffic! They posed on the cross walk in the manner of the legendary album cover—striding across in single file with their arms swinging from their sides. Drivers seemed very patient indeed and gave them wide berth! I decided to use my City Secrets London guide book to find out a bit more about the venue than was indicated by the graffiti that covered the low walls surrounding the building.

            So here goes: Abbey Studios gained notoriety, of course, via the Beatles who recorded there at 3 Abbey Road for seven years; but the venue was significant long before their time. It had been in existence since 1927 when Captain Osmund “Ozzy” Williams decided to build a recording studio in North London. The Beatles were not the first major recording artists to use the premises: in the 1930s Sir Edward Elgar had conducted the London Symphony Orchestra in a recording of Land of Hope and Glory—there is a blue plaque to announce this fact at the entrance of the building. And in the 1940s, Glenn Miller had recorded there. The Beatles arrived there on June 2, 1962 (with Pete Best instead of Ringo) and the first song they recorded, the next year, was “Love Me Do” in Studio 2. The Abbey Road LP, the Beatles’ tenth and final album to be recorded, was released on September 26, 1969. The photo of Paul, shoeless on the crossing, led to rumors that he was really dead. 

            Don’t expect too much of the venue. The building is nondescript, low slung and seems to meld away into the grand Victorian and Edwardian apartment buildings that surround it—all red brick and ornamental white stucco. I felt a little deflated (although I was visiting the venue for the second time—Llew and I had actually posed in the crosswalk ourselves, four years ago after visiting my orthopedist who had a clinic not too far away and who had fitted me with orthotics when I had plantar fascittis). It reminded me of the disappointment I had felt when visiting Sun Studios in Memphis, Tennessee—such an unassuming building, I had thought, to have made such staggering talent known to the world. I had the exact same thought this time round as I surveyed the white structure. Tourists have brought some stature to the building if graffiti can be said to achieve that. On the walls and the pillars, there are tokens of visits in every language for at least 30 tourists come each day to the venue to leave marks of their visit upon the walls—I counted more than 30 in the fifteen minutes I spent there. They obviously come equipped with marker pens and spray paint cans to make the musical pilgrimage in much the same way that as fans of Jim Morrison, we had visited Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris and as fans of Elvis, we had visited Graceland, his gaudy estate in Memphis. What is interesting is how these Beatles’ fans cut widely across age and racial lines: there were teenagers and baby boomers when I was there, taking pictures and posing enthusiastically with the Abbey Studios sign in the background. 

Meeting Chris and Getting Acquainted with my Next Digs:

            Then, I was across the street, wondering which bell to ring to get inside when Chris, coincidentally, walked to the front door and let me in! We spent the next half hour in their lovely sprawling Edwardian flat with its multiple bathrooms and closets and spacious corridors. He showed me the ropes, gave me the wifi password and instructed me in the use of TV and kitchen appliances. I took notes knowing I will never remember everything he showed me, ten days from now.

            Then, with directions from him, I hopped into a bus going to Finchley Road as I headed to Waitrose to pick up food provisions for the coming week. I had a blast buying all my favorite English things: Ox Tongue, Stilton Cheese with Ginger, Regular Stilton Cheese, Chipolata Sausages, Brocolli and Gruyere Cheese Quiche and Bacon, Leek and Cheddar Cheese Quiche, Warburton's Multigrain Bread (as my favored Walnut Loaf was sold out), Romaine Lettuce Hearts and Balsamic Vinaigrette for Salad, Muesli and Greek Style Honey Yogurt for my breakfast cereal and lemon for my tea! And I was all set! Weighed down by my belongings, I took  the Tube from Finchley Road station and came back home at 10. 45. I was starving; so had a quiche and salad meal with tea before going to bed at 11.00 pm.

            So there you have it—a not very exciting day, made slightly less mundane by my visit to Abbey Road and the Beatles’ legendary stomping ground. For those who are reading this blog, I promise to make the rest of my month less banal. I am having issues loading material on to my blog site, though, so I hope the technical glitches will be sorted soon. 

     Thanks for returning to my blog and for accompanying me on my adventures in my second home--London! Please do pen me some comments as that I can feel more closely connected with you.

     Until tomorrow, cheerio!