A Lovely Day in London Town
“Oh, it’s London calling, I must go..." The Clash
Tuesday was a huge blur I probably couldn’t piece together if I tried. It was basically work half the day and wrap everything up, make sure everything was packed, hop in an Uber, pick up Corb’s mom, head to Logan Airport grab dinner, take off for London at eight at night and arrive at eight in the morning. Not one speck of sleep.
Well, dang. Guess I was able to piece it together.
Wednesday was a much more interesting day, which still, strangely enough, didn’t involve any sleep, either.
Once we got off the plane, we had a bit of exploring in London to do. Our flat wasn’t going to be ready until four, so we had decided to make the most of the time we had. So, off to Paddington Station, where we secured our suitcases safely and then headed off to see Big Ben.
And, eat. Man were we hungry! Fortunately there was a place across the street, St. Stephen's Tavern, which was serving breakfast, so we sat outside, disregarding the strong scent of urine wafting around the area. Corb and I ordered the English breakfast (with toast and beans), and Corb’s mom, got…well, kind of tripped up.
You may recall my stories about how Corb’s family can be really difficult when it comes to ordering out food, and much of what they learned they leaned from Corb’s mom. She is a notoriously picky eater and will send something back at the drop of a hat.
Such was the case here, but what she didn’t realize was, she was in a different country, where people aren’t as tolerant of rude behavior (I do consider asking food to be recooked to be fairly obnoxious and will only do it in very rare occasions.)
When her breakfast came she looked at the eggs and after the waitress had left said, “Oh dear,” as she put a fork into the eggs. “These are too runny. I have a thing about runny eggs. They make me want to throw up. Oh waitress! Waitress!”
The waitress returned, a bit puzzled. “I ordered eggs over easy, but these are too runny. Can you please ask the waiter to recook these? And, this bacon is far too fatty. Not crisp at all.” The waitress wrinkled her nose but said she would try. Five minutes later, his mom had firmer bacon, but: “That’s the way over easy eggs are cooked, our cook says. If you had wanted them firmer, you should have asked for that. He is not going to throw them away.”
Corb’s mother looked aghast. “Well, can they scramble the eggs up, in that case?”
Meanwhile, Corb and I just sat there eating our breakfast. That is another idiotic family rule: no eating until everyone has their food. I had given up this insane practice of letting my food grow cold after the great Tina incident.
“Can you believe how rude she was?” Corb’s mother asked. I tried to be nice and explain that maybe it was a cultural thing…not every country is big on returnig orders for re-cooking.
After breakfast we decided to walk a block away and check out Westminster Abbey.
Of course, we were amazed by all the history that surrounded us. The statues and the plaques dedicated to so many famous figures was abslutely breathtaking. All the royalty! And the artists…Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare, Ralph Vaughn Wiliams, PG Wodenhouse, DH Lawrence…incredible.
We were surrounded by memories of giants. It was awe inspiring.
"And where are you, little ant?" I thought to myself. Dreaming in the future, weighed down by the present.
Afterwards, we picked up our suitcases at Paddington and headed to our flat. It was nice, fairly typical Air BnB, chock full of Ikea furniture. And, some of the internal design was awkward, especially our bathoom, which had the tiniest sink I have ever seen, with most if it covered by the mirror overhead. It was a challenge to spit in it while you were brushing your teeth without the toothpaste dripping over the side.
All that said, it was in a really lovely section of London…Barron’s Court, right neat the tennis courts. And, the hot shower was fantastic. So, all in all, huge win.
And one other fringe benefit: it was within walking distance of some mighty fine restaurants, including the Crabtree, which looks over the Thames. The view was astounding.
We ate a long leisurely dinner, with some incredible baked Camembert served with toasted sourdough. For the main course, I had a heritage beetroot, Granny smith and driftwood goats cheese salad, with thinly sliced steak on top.
The evening, the atmosphere, the company. A charming waitress.
“This is the best meal I have ever eaten,” Corb’s mom said at the end of the evening.
No sendsies backsies for this meal. We ended up walking back to our flat as the sun started to set at ten at night, loving the quiet we were feeling in the heart of London, something I hadn't felt since Morano Italy two years before.
There's a kind of hush you find in certain European cities you simply cannot replicate in America. It's old world soul.
