All my buddies in Austin were cooking along with the ACL music fest. I was cooking along under a retrograde Mars, a retrograde Mercury, enjoying myself in the big, old city. Old city. Way old city. Very way old city. Confusing, way old city. Confusing and odd city. Odd and old, but mostly odd.
Keep this in perspective, those two planets are backwards, right? Right. Plans? I had none. Zero expectations. I mean, a big-fat-nada-zero-expectations. London’s had a spate of weather wherein it’s been rather unseasonably warm. Me in shorts and sandals? Perfect. Walking weather without breaking so much as a mild sweat. However, to a number of the residents and denizens, plus the gaggle of tourists, it’s been tough. Plus, it’s not like they have that whole “air-conditioned comfort” thing all worked out. They call this the seat of civilization? How can one be civilized without air conditioning? Isn’t that prerequisite? None of this bothers me. I’m onto a new theory, that’s why they lost the Empire, God Save the Queen, hey, I’m genuflecting here: no AC.
I started out in one direction caught a different train and wound up back at the River Thames, the Westminster Station, and I asked a helpful-looking attendant what the strangest tourist question has been.
‘Ow, we get these types who come up and stand right under the sign and ask, “Is this Westminster?” No, we just put these signs up to confuse you.’
I chuckled, thanked him for helping me, and wandered off. I was trying to capture the right elements for a photo-op. Dali’s “Time” sculpture with Big Ben shadowing it.
I tried, but none of the shots seemed to work out.
No harm, no foul, it’s all just digital ink.
From there, I hopped a tube back towards someplace, intending to hit Marble Arch Station, because no trip to London is complete without an image of Marble Arch Station, made famous by Gary P. Nunn’s “London Homesick Blues.”
And then I got back on the tube, noticing a station called, “Mornington Crescent,” (it’s on the Northern Line).
Here’s the tough part, I can’t remember where that station’s name is mentioned in literature. But it is. I’m pretty sure. Maybe. Think so. Anyway, I decided to hop over there, switched trains someplace and wound up looking at the tube station for Mornington Crescent. Why I bothered to go there, I’ll never know. I still can’t remember which book it’s in, or why I felt compelled to go there and take a picture.
Now the fun began. I was originally headed for the Museum of London because they have display of Sam Pepys material. And Pepys was a prototypical ‘blogger’ or ‘journal writer.’ Do the math, he’s years ahead of the Victorians.
So I wanted to check that out; however, getting south from that ill-fated tube stop that I can’t remember why I went there in the first place, going to anyplace else, seemed destined to not happen, I mean, I got on and off trains for the next two hours, finally winding up at some station – I don’t know where – determined to just walk from here, or there, if need be – because there was construction on one line which meant that all east-west, or maybe it was north-south, or was it the Circle Line – that might’ve been it, going around in circles wasn’t possible – couldn’t get here from there, at least, not without going to the surface and at that point, I wasn’t sure which way I was going anyway because underground, it all looks the same, they call them “east” wand “west” lines like that makes any sense, how can you tell directions without a sun and moon, and lord knows, there’s no real light underground.
The sun was to my left, and I ambled off in that direction because I recognized one of the street names, and I knew that London-proper, really isn’t very big, and I was well within the confines of the original city walls. I think. I walked for no more than a block when I stumbled, almost literally, into the British Library. Oh yeah, I meant to be here. I was meaning to come here anyway – always make it look like it was planned.
Jane Austen’s writing desk, looks like she used A5 paper, and a really early copy of Love’s Labours Lost (1598?).
An hour later, I wandered back to the amazing labyrinth of tube destinations, made a blind choice, and wound up some place near the Museum of London. Another good call, on my part. Like I planned it. Yeah, go with that idea.
Pepys material was displayed, including one of the original diaries, or rather good facsimile. That and the inkwells were about all that really held my interest. His shorthand has held up pretty well, and he displays remarkable penmanship, I mean, expecting much more than a single letter out of me is a little ridiculous.
Everyone has their ‘spot’ in museums of the world. Mine is down in the Museum of London’s ‘Roman’ section, where there’s some recent archeology (last 50 years? I’m trying to recall what it said.) It’s what’s left of temple from the cult of Mithras. There was a center medallion in the building, about a foot or so in diameter, had all 12 signs of the zodiac, pretty clear, carved out around the edge. But I was urged not to take any pictures. And to be honest, I can’t use that usual retort, ‘I’ve been thrown out of nicer places than this!’ So I left my camera in my pocket. But I really do want a picture of that medallion. There was also a picture of Mr. Mercury, sitting on a bag of money. I hope the current Mr. Mercury brings me a bag of money, too.
Also part of the Temple of Mithras, there was a river god. I was liking that guy, only, I was worried that he might confuse the River Styx with the Thames.
From the museum, I wandered back towards St. Paul’s. I passed, three or four churches, at least one claimed to be over a 1,000 years old, and I wandered down towards Mary Le Bow. Church. As I got closer, there was the usual trappings of a movie set, the mobile catering, the dozens of buses, big cables snaking out of a portable generator. Don’t know and I didn’t bother to ask. Didn’t care.
Back to St. Paul, back underground, and back towards home. I got out at Covent Garden or Lester Square, I’m not sure. I wound up in the Seven Dials area, which is misnamed, because there’s only one dial but seven streets come together, and navigation, even with the aid of the then-setting sun, it’s still confusing. And that’s with ideal conditions. Wait, these were ideal conditions.
The weather? What can I suggest? It has been a dream come true. Warm enough to warrant shorts, cool enough to let my hair down, nice enough for lots of outdoor walking – sort of a requirement in London.
I stopped off at Hatchard’s, booksellers since 1797, and I wandered in and amongst their three or four floors. As I made a selection and carried it down to the checkout counter, I asked the counter girl what the weirdest question from tourist had been.
‘”How do you spell ISBN?” No, really, some guy wanted to know how to spell ISBN.’
I got that one down. ISBN is spelled, 1-4116-0156-4 …
Ma Wetzel, sweet Scorpio that she is, insisted on a good dinner. So we wandered off in the darkening twilight, and found ourselves at one of those fancy places. She likes it when they have linen napkins. I’m not sure she was so hot on the Italian ‘no speaking good English’ waitress. Dinner was fine. Dessert was divine. It was a traditional, English dessert of Sticky Toffee Pudding. Ma Wetzel suggested one dessert and two fork, and I suggested she order her own, and that way no one’s feeling would get hurt about who had more.
She ate the whole thing. In fact, she finished before me. This from ‘me wee Scorpio mum.’
Yeah right.