As I write, I am observing the British tradition of taking afternoon tea.
Ah, the decadence of pure butter shortbread cookies!
After a romantic dinner at the Old Mill (a little French bistro) and a lively round of Irish music at The Porter House, we arrived in London only to be greeted by a horrible thunderstorm. Not just normal rain like in Dublin, but trees-falling-down rain. I know it really bummed Chris out, especially because our final night in Dublin was so perfect – a charming dinner where it was pointed out by everyone in the restaurant that I was having four dishes (they were small!) followed by a true Irish band playing the penny flute and Irish bagpipe (like the Scottish bagpipe only you tuck it under your arm and squeeze with your elbow). It was such a spirited and lively time although I could do without the lecherous Canadian that kept telling me that Chris did not love me (is it me or is there always some Canadian like that? And how is it that Americans end up getting a worse rap than them?)
A $60 cab ride later, we arrived at the hotel. Seeing our hotel room did not improve the situation. Can you say D-U-M-P! We unpacked, washed our faces and lied down on the bed side-by-side like miserable sardines with the horrible florescent light flickering on the low ceiling overhead and the drip of the grimy shower in the adjacent room competing with the storm outside. As Chris, ever the writer, pointed out: the grimy yellow walls were the color of suicide. I knew if we had to stay in that room for six nights we would never make it to the next anniversary. With a bit of prodding, I got them to move us into another room and although it’s still tiny and the floors are severely slanted, at least it’s got a big window that overlooks a grassy square and a TV that actually works. Once we got over the initial shock, we decided to venture out and stumbled upon a great Chinese restaurant. Looking at the people in the room made me realize that although there were a lot of Asians in Dublin, you never saw them mixing with non-Asians. Being a gigantic city, you get all kinds in London. After dinner, we poked our heads into the Slug & Cabbage, a local bar which was nice but unmemorable so we took another cab ride to Soho and had a drink at the bar in St. Martin’s Hotel (sib to the Paramount and Mercer). It is an achingly trendy place, but the people were actually nice and it was sort of a relief to be someplace with an aesthetic. After that Chris took his first ride on the London subway underground, The Tube. It’s a lot like NYC’s system: cheap, goes everywhere and is the primary source of transport for locals -- with a couple of exceptions: it closes at 12:30 a.m., and is much, much cleaner with comfy upholstered chairs.
A large portion of yesterday consisted of us walking around, Chris pointing
at a dome/building/bridge/monument, etc., and asking “What’s
that?” to be told “Beats me”. Cut me some slack –
it has been eight years since I’d last been to London! Still, we
managed to cross the London Bridge and meander down the Wharf. For those
of you who haven’t been in awhile, it’s a newly developed area
with restaurants and theatres and tiny museums that lead to the Tate Gallery
of Modern Art. I know this is going to come as a surprise, but I HATED
the Tate. The collection featured big names, but it was far from the artists’
best work and was horribly displayed with each room organized under cheesy
and pandering themes. Chris managed to like it a bit more than me because
he avoided reading the dopey captions.
After the Tate we crossed over the Millennium footbridge and had lunch
at the French café, Cellar Gascon. So far, it’s been our best
dining experience because we got to have a nice long meal basking in the
sun as harried businessmen fought traffic to hurry back to the office.
Oh, and the food was good too.
An aside about the dress: the men all wear very slim cut button down shirts in bold colors and stripes with big cuffs (and cufflinks), and flat front pants. I think they’ve altogether outlawed the pleated pant in the more fashionable districts. Hair is always short and stylishly mussed. As for the ladies, there is not a tank top in sight. Rubber flip flops are worn, but only with colorful ankle socks (really). The low rise jean is also very popular as are super-high pointy-toed heels. The truly trendy do all three looks at once: the low rise jean, colorful ankle sock and stiletto heel. Wow. I could never pull this off, especially if you have to walk on the cobblestoned streets!
After lunch we walked through the meat market (we’ll have to come
back at 5 a.m. to really catch the action) and through St. Bart’s,
the oldest church in England. More walking into Covent Gardens, Chinatown
and Soho. Our favorite area was Carnaby
Street, a district that was once popular for its counterculture mod sensibility
and racy sex shops, but is now known for its designer boutiques. It still
has a bit of hipster edge and makes for great people watching and picture
taking (which drives Chris crazy!). On Terry’s recommendation we
headed to the Belgado Centraal, a huge, sprawling multi-level Belgium
restaurant for some moules (mussels), frites and bieres and cause we’re
cheapskates, we did the Beat the Clock meal where your set menu costs
the same as the time it’s ordered (i.e., if you order at 6:30, your
meal is 6 pounds 30 pence). It was around this time that Chris started
to come down with a bad case of the sniffles, but he insists it’s
NOT cause of all those days of walking around in the rain without a coat.
I put him to bed early so he could rest up before starting training today.
I woke up at 5:30 in the morning, inexplicably sad until I realized that it was September 11. After two hours of watching the news, I knew I had to get out of the room. Because Chris’s jeans smelled like a homeless person, I spent the morning doing laundry, paying bills, and cleaning up a bit before heading to lunch at Yo, Sushi! I LOVE Yo, Sushi! You sit at this big bar while a conveyor belt carries all sorts of sushi, noodles, tempuras, makis, desserts, etc., on color-coded plates. You just pick-up whatever you like and when you’re done, they tally your bill according to the colors of the plates. I know they have this in NYC, but I hadn’t had the good fortune to experience it first-hand so it was very exciting for me. As I was leaving the restaurant, they announced that they would be observing two minutes of silence in honor of the victims of 9.11. Although the British are sympathetic (there was a vigil planned today and many shops and businesses observed a moment of silence), it made me a little homesick. As much as London reminds me of NYC (and elicits the same extreme responses to big city living), it made me realize how much I am an American, for worse and better. I thought about this a lot as I walked through Hyde Park and wondered how all of you guys (friends and family) back home are fairing today.
Not wanting to go back to the room, I wandered down to Notting Hill (no Hugh Grant) and over by Portobello Road, which I found sort of junky and not appealing (like a big flea market). I’m pleased that I managed to do all this without breaking my solemn promise not to take any more cabs (so expensive!) or get hit by a car (they drive on the other side of the street, which I can’t seem to get used to).
When Chris gets back, we’ll meet his co-workers for dinner. In the meanwhile, enjoy the London pictures and check out the new music feature highlighting Sliotar, the Irish band we caught during our last night in Dublin.