Ah, London! That's a ripping good town.
How was it? Lessee if I can remember. I turned up Friday evening and found my hostel, easy as pie. By surprise, I had a rather large room with just one bed. In Manhattan last December I paid more to get a 1/4 share of a room half that size. In London I was well placed, in a safe neighborhood, near a row of nice restaurants and with easy access to the Tube. If you're headed to London, I recommend the Belsize House in Belsize Park.
That first night I ate at a pizza chain—but, like, an upscale pizza chain. I wolfed down a mediocre pizza with a great salad (Was it lima beans? Those big lumpy green things? Why were they so good?), two good beers, and an absolutely smashing dessert: figs in sweet wine plus ice cream, and coffee on the side.
Next morning I began my exploration at a randomly-chosen Tube stop ("Bank": not recommended for this purpose) and wandered up to London Tower, and thence to Tower Bridge. Turns out London Tower's not a tower at all! It's more of a castle; explains why I couldn't pick it out in those Elizabethan drawings in my Shakespeare book. Unlike most castles, it's a creamy yellow/pink color, making it somewhat more appealing to the eye.
Near Tower Bridge I found a thing called the Design Museum. Not having much time, I only browsed the book shop, but I did find some nice things about typefaces, book design, and architecture. Then I was off to the fabled haunts of Homerton.
"Wot's that?" you ask? "Homerton? Not heard of it." I was there to check out a photo exhibit of bhikku's, and others. Quite nice, that. I'd have taken an armload of those photos, if I could've. It was great meeting the ol' bhikku, a Friend In Blogspace, and seeing bhikku's scene.
Bhikku exhorted me: "Write about whatever you do next," so here's goes. By rail I went to the South side of this Thames River (River Thames?) and wandered down along it, pondering each huge museum as I passed. There were life out there: loads of people out walking, and buskers. Like, some bozos banging on a tin pan, but they were only pretending; I wasn't fooled. Further on was a woman painted to look like a statue, and holding very still. I was fooled at first, but meh. Then—ooh, then—there was a Bobby in a black vest, white tutu, white stockings, and a white umbrella. When a coin was dropped in the hat, s/he would magnificently gesture thanks to each person in turn, then make some other uberelaborate performance of, saying, pouring tea for her/his kind guests. They'd run off, and s/he'd stop. That was quite good; it was something about the tutu.
Now then, listen up for this bit: further along was a kid tapping with a mallet on what looked like two woks clamped together. It made tin-pan sounds and I nearly ran away, remember the faux-buskers from moments before. Then I noticed he had a friend with a snare drum and cymbals, another with an upright bass, and with them a sax too; I decided to stop and listen. As it turned out, they were rather good. They had me and a big crowd in their thrall for several pieces. To give you the idea, imagine that Dave Matthews Band (at its best) swallowed Sigur Rós, and got ten years younger. They're called Portico Quartet. Don't neglect to see them play if you have the chance.
After that, I went down to this little gallery they have, called the Tate Modern—but oh, ah, what a gallery. I spent 3 1/2 hours on two floors (of four) and could have spent more another day; detailed descriptions and exultations are deferred to another post, in the interests of keeping this one bite-sized (okay, meal-sized).
The Tate is open late on weekends—a nice trait for a gallery. Even at 9:30pm, I found a nice restaurant along the water, where I could watch the city lights on the far side, and eavesdrop on young, well-off Londoners having their dates and bullsh|tting with their friends. There, I got a roasted butternut squash covered by a rather good salad, and a nice Côtes du Rhone wine, to boot. The salad, with rocket, tasted very good, and the squash was nice, too, though really, it was nothing more than a roasted squash. I count it a Good Meal and am surprised that it only cost as much as a similar meal in Edinburgh, in spite of the much better surroundings.
Sunday morning, I hit up Paddington Station. I did not find there any toggle-coated bears, not from darkest Peru nor anywhere else.
From Paddington I wandered through Hyde Park, saw the Statue to Physical Energy (which was not, as I'd hoped, a rendering in stone of an electrical dynamo or of the atom, but just a guy on a horse), and then found myself at the Natural History Museum. They have loads of rocks, as well as this helpful sign explaining tool use in humans:
Had lunch at a very nice bakery, called I think Paul, at South Kensington on Thurloe Street. Highly recommended.
Wandered Buckingham Palace—surprisingly, a great many kinds of birds hang out there. I watched them, and the other tourists, for a spell. It was a wet day, and everything closed early, so not much else happened that day.
The last highlight was dinner at The Mango Room, just near the Camden Town tube stop, a "carribbean" place (carribbean ingredients, that is). This was the best dinner of the trip: a risotto with baby spinach, fried plantains, and "crispy leeks," that is, strands of finely cut, toasted leek—very scrumptious. It was presented with such flair that the two demure young German guys at the next table were driven to distraction when it arrived; I volunteered, "It's the risotto," and they looked it up with interest on the menu. With it I had a terrific wine from Portugal, known as "Vista TR" (but does that make any sense to any one?), and for dessert, bananas flambéed in rum with cinnamon. I'll be making that at the homestead.
Dark and wet, all tired out from walking, I tubed back up to my hostel, merrily merry now for the third evening in a row, and resolved to do this—take a vacation, treat myself to such pleasure—again and again and again.