I arrived at London Heathrow later than scheduled as our flight from LAX was delayed, but still I was early enough to see a little of my home base environs that would be mine for the next nearly two weeks. London's latitude and longitude means that in spring and summer it is light very late, till nearly 10 p.m. I had a quick run around Russell Square with its magpies (they don't have mockingbirds) rustling throiugh the dense and lovely trees.
My rooms were at a place run by Quakers, with William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania being its namesake. It was recommended to me by my newest friend,, and during this trip, my kind guide and companion through most days (she arrived on Wednesday the 29th of May and stayed on with me and joined me on many of my ventures until June 6), Heather. When she and her husband Chris came up to London from their home in Southampton and did not wish to take the somewhat more than a hour trip back home, they would stay there and were always impressed by the quiet, cleanliness and service, as well as the central locale. It is a simple environment in many ways, not unlike Catholic retreat houses in which I have stayed. A comfortable plain bed, with a light comforter, and an extra blanket in the wardrobe. In this place there were luxurious feather pillows, however. No phones in the room. No televisions. No lift, as they call their elevators. A nice sitting room for television, or reading of the many newspapers of the day. They have and have long had three narrow row houses on 21-23 Bedford Place, smack between the gardens of the small Bloomsbury Square and the larger Russell Square, neither park as large as the ones I would later walk through, but as all the parks, diminutive or grand, beautiful spaces for the mind to wander. Here you see the view from the front door outward.
Some rooms have no bathroom, and one on a floor is shared by the occupants. As a two week visitor I was vouchsafed (at my request) an ensuite, including a shower that may have barely allowed body movement, but had a delightful spray, even if managed by a loud pumping system that I often feared wuld explode for the sound. My rooms were on the third (really the fourth) floor, what would have been maid's quarters in days not so long by, and notwithstanding the climb daily, I liked its location and view above the street.
In truth, I received every comfort I would have had in a fancier place, daily cleanup of my room, so that when I returned after a long day's touring about I had neatness restored and whether I asked for them or not, new towels and a strange paper bath mat that stuck to your feet when you came out of the shower--I used it only once and instead used my hand towel as a more useful mat. Breakfast was served in the dining room that looked out over a small garden to which for some reason no one had access, from 7 to 9:30 on weekdays and 8 to 10:30 on weekends. Since my body, usually tending to wake up and move about after 10 on an average California day, was on some other rhythm, and since I was eager to tool about from the moment I arrived, I was up usually between 6 and 7. In fact, the first day, despite the cool and the rain that I thought would define my time in London, I was out and about before 6 thirty (I know, hard to believe if you know me, huh?) and at Costa, one of the many versions of coffee shops--yes, England has coffee up the wazoo now--including Caffe Nero (soon to be in New York I was told) and Pret a Manger, and many a family run patisserie, having a panini that was just right with a cup of well whipped creamed mocha. And then I was off for a toothbrush, the one thing I didn't bring with me, at Boots and a few other supplies at the local chain grocery.
To say that this spare club (by the time I left I had spent only 1,100 pounds, about 1400 dollars for my residency, freeing me for many attractions and the purchase of a million unnecssary, but contrarily, indispensable souvenirs for myself and others) grew on me would be an understatement. My Los Angeles based, long time English friend, Denise, with whom I came (she in business class, me in the economy) stays at the Landsdowne in Mayfair, and while it was and is certainly more upscale in its furnishings, the services were more or less what I received in my less extravagant digs. It was a lovely, well kept, place to have a snack and sleep--the well treated visitor--and clearly, from looking at the guestbook, everyone who came, from all over the world, felt it a gem in a neighborhood, full of similar places, and university related housing. I heard many a young American voice at 4 a,m. probably after a night at one of the many pubs in town. I was living a real life iin a real place and I felt remarkably at home.
Yes, London is a place in which I could live, except for the weather. Which is what I said about New York after 27 years, leading me to a life in Los Angeles now for over 30 years. It is a life I enjoy, but I realize the limitations of a city spread far apart, and with a comparatively nominal history, and I do occasionally long for the intensity of my old home town, which came back into my vision as I wandered around its older sister London and rode the underground.
The Penn Club was a splendid hub from which I ushered myself forth early every morning and into a world of art, architecture, history, and religion, with forays into many a pub and restaurant and park. And meet ups with friends old and new.
Next: The British Museum. Antiquities galore. And a nice Devon blue cheese for lunch.
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