A Rainy First Day in London Town

I woke up very early that first morning in London, five a.m.  It does not, as I mentioned, get dark early during spring and summer, so also it is that it gets light very early. It was raining. A lot. I was not surprised or disappointed despite my constant need (hence the move from New York to Los Angeles all those years ago) for sunshine. A rainy day in England, well, I knew well that precipitation is the way of things in that clime and the reason for all those lovely gardens bespeaking Paradise, with angelic bird voices.

So, I looked out the window, feeling the bracing morning air and was accepting of whatever was to come, wherever I ended up going. My friend Heather was not going to be arriving at the club for another day or so, and my travel companion, Denise, had advised me she would be incommunicado for several days recovering from jet lag (she could afford the time as she would be there longer than I). I was on my own.

It was too early for the continental breakfast in the dining room. And I was, no surprise to anyone who knows me, antsy. I showered in the tiny bathroom, with the even more tiny shower, a later inclusion into the narrow rooms of this 18th century building, but the spray was warm and intense. I felt refreshed and ready to don my raincoat (the same on I wore in Italy 22 years ago, a sturdy Eddie Bauer) and cap unable though unable to find the small umbrella that Heather had given to me when she met us at the airport. Oh, well, I said to myself. It's only a little water.

And so, before six a.m. I  made my way down the long stair case from my room,




stepped onto Bedford Place and wended my say to Southampton Row and then High Holborn street in search of I knew not what, except that when the stores opened I'd need one thing I had failed to bring with me, a toothbrush.

Along Bedford Place there are a number of small hotels of greater and lesser expense. You are looking toward the small Bloomsbury Park. Perhaps you can see my wet footsteps along the way!

 

I had converted about 500 dollars of American cash to 300 and change in British pounds (yes, the exchange rate is that bad) before I arrived so I'd have money for taxi's and immediate needs. But I wanted to find a bank ATM to try, having twice told my bank that I would be out of the country and please oh, please, make sure that my selected cards would work.

 

I found the right bank quickly and my card did work. I was positively triumphant. In my prior European trip, all those years before, there were no ATMS and only the unwieldy American Express Checks. The rain was increasing. I found myself hungry at 6 thirty a.m., my body clock eight hours of time difference and 10 hours of travelling, off. 

 

There are certain myths about England, and one of them is that the inhabitants don't drink coffee.  The other myth I shall address in later entries.  Drink coffee they do, in an abundance of coffee shops that do of course sell tea in a lovely pot as well. Costa, Caffe Nero, and our Starbucks probably in my mind, coming in at number three in its ubiquitous presence.

 

I picked a corner Costa, so I could eat a terrific and properly thin panini of ham and cheese and a mocha in a proper cup filled with whipped cream the amount of which would be considered too profligate in America (and a waste of money). As it was getting later in the morning, the pedestrians increased in number and pace on their way to work. I could have been in New York and as I sat there I reminisced a little about my days walking in the rain in lower Manhattan after getting an extra sugared coffee in one of those greek decorated coffee cups, you know, the white columns against blue background.

 

I had no idea what I would do next. I just got the bug to walk and I did not care it drizzled, mizzled or poured. I kept track of my turns and landmarks so I'd find my way back. I did not on this trip take a map. I did not expect to go so far that I'd get lost. And there was always a cab if I did.

 

I walked up one street after another, and ended up in a quaint set of streets, identified collectively as Seven Dials.

 

I

I don't know how long I walked, but I realized that I was being somewhat aimless and I needed as the morning something more organized. And so, I walked back the other way, toward my club and the British Museum, only about a block and a half away from one another. The museum would be open by now.

 





 

I always intended that museum to be the first of my visits because it was likely to be a day of jet lag and I could do something meaningful but not over exhaust myself and if exhausted, take to my comfortable bed.

 

I came upon its large entry and damp stone and felt elated that I had finally taken another trip to Europe (although the Brits tend to talk about "Europe" as if they are not part of it) despite my terror of flying.

 

 



 

I am told that this museum has the largest collection of antiquities, including Greek. In modern times this reality has caused a bit of friction among nations--not yet enough to go to war, but in human reality, who knows---because one nation is accused of stealing the other nation's treasures. The reality I imagine is much more complicated, and were it not for the way things did unfold, much of our human history might be lost to us. I met a woman having this conversation with her 8 year old son--which itself seemed amazing, and when she asked me what I thought, I concluded that while I understood the argument, it seemed to me that the ship had already sailed. If all the museums of the world were giving back everything they got because of the controversy, somehow it would not benefit those of us who wandered into a place like this to see the artifacts in the first place. It seems to me they belong to all of us, not to any one nation.

I learned that day that there was no way to see everything, or even a small portion of everything. And so, I'd get the little audio equipment and wander around and stop at whatever beckoned and spoke to my heart.

The sheer size and brightness of the interior was almost overwhelming enough.

 

 

 

Anything I saw was something miraculous I had never seen before, and so, it was pleasure enough.  One of my favorite movies is 84 Charing Cross Road, with Anne Bancroft.  It is about a New York woman in the late 1940s, who buys books from a little English bookshop on Charing Cross Road, and has an entire relationship with the man with whom she deals, a platonic, but intimate one, simply by letter. She only finally visits England after he dies, but merely stepping into the shop, the connection with that man she loved from afar and the place he lived, is sufficient. She is told, when you go to England, you find whatever it is you are looking for. If you are looking for art, you'll find that; history, you'll find that; religion, you'll find that.

 



As I wandered around the British Museum, I knew I had found it all. And every such adventure would be full enough.

And so I spied the great and the small of human history, and all of it was awesome.

The first, some would say best, an item much discussed in our grammar school educations, was the Rosetta Stone. It hails from the Ptolemaic periid, 196 B.C. That's B.C.!  The deciphering of the hieroglyphs was a landmark in human history to match perhaps its very existence.

 

Such historical manifestations tend to loom large in a child's mind, and in the mind of the adult she becomes. It was the very first thing I saw at the Museum. I knew it was important. And yet, I was somehow rather banally sad that it was so small and the writing so apparently tight and faint. And yet, Djinn, there you were standing in front of the Rosetta Stone!  You have to be, I was, mesmerized.

 

 

Why did I take a picture of the things I did? I don't know. They spoke to me. Look at this statue. I am reminded of the poem Ozymandias, by Shelley, and the proud voice of a pharaoh, who expected to be remembered for all time, but whose memorial was covered over by the sands of the desert so that he was forgotten.  One can build all the monuments one wants, but we remain fragile and mortal. The things we build may speak to other generations of greatness even as the names of the builders resonate not at all. An interesting irony.

 

And yet, whether I know the builder or not, I feel a connection to him, to them. And in there is a legacy of sorts. An immortality on earth whether you believe in one elsewhere.

 

For me, though, the artifacts of Christianity, strengthened my faith. Things so close to the beginning of that faith as to make it seem impossible to me that it could not be true.

  

 

 

This is a fourth century (300 something) representation of a clean shaven Christ, which makes it interesting enough. But this was a time when the Church Fathers were writing of a faith that was sweeping the known world. That which has lasted two thousand years despite human and superhuman (you know, le diablo) efforts to destroy it.

Here is something that intrigued me. What does it look like to you?

A primitive ironing board? A divan? No, if I read it right, it is an 11,000 year old item that changed mankind from a nomadic life to a settled farming one. It grinds wheat into flour. The longer side (left) was braced against the knee of the woman (yes, always a woman) who used a stone like the one on top of it to move her hand up and down until the wheat was a powder. You can see the indentation in the center. Something so ordinary and something so dramatic.

There were crucifixes and crosses of gold.

 

Royal cups.

 

No, this isn't Shakespeare.  Looks like him though.

 

Bronze or something heads of emperors, this one Claudius.

 And of course, what would ancient times be without a cat, or modern times for that matter.

When I was a child, my Aunt Kathleen used to take me and my cousins to various New York museums. She loved to walk. At the time, I didn't. By the time we got to the museums, my feet would always be hurting--or maybe my shoes weren't made for the exertion. I was reminded of those times after my rambling through the British Museum. Oh, now I like to walk. But still my feet were hurting from all the standing and looking. 

I was ready for a little something, something of a drink and lunch. Happily, on the top floor of the Museum, there was a lovely indoor cafe that had the light and air of an outdoor one.

 

 

 

And nibble I did, on a platter of Devon Blue Cheese and marinated artichokes, and of course, a nice glass of white wine.

 

 

There was the search for souvenirs to top off the first full day of my visit to London and its environs. And when I walked back to my room, I realized that I had been out for hours and hours, although it was still afternoon. The lag had caught up to me and I fell to my bed, grateful for my first day.