So, after a couple of days your hosts will start to cut the cord. Throw you out of the nest, let you test out your wings. Fight. Flight. Somewhere in between. So, the other day after eating my fill of thick, fresh, sliced and toasted bread covered in lemon curd, Tessa and I headed downtown for some sight seeing. She warned me this was it, and for the next few days I would be all alone in my sight seeing, with just me alone in the London with my tube map, a to z, and a pocket full of foreign coins. But before the cord cutting ritual, we had time together at the Wellcome Museum. It's sort of an eclectic museum-- science, art, the mind, the intersections of all of the above. We went to see the 'Identity' exhibit. Eight 'rooms' that contained artifacts, writings, photographs and videos of different people. Most of whom have dealt with identity and defining what it is to be in different ways. The small wooden rooms were made from freshly cut wood, which gave the exhibit an overwhelming IKEA-like smell, but still it held our interest. The intersection or overlap of identity, art, genes. How people define and refine who they are or how they try to categorize others. It was well worth the free admission and the tube ticket price. And between you and me, the cake in the cafe was beyond belief. When I grow up, I would like to be defined by cake. I would like my IKEA smelling room to be covered in icing and sprinkles.
To prove I am a giver as well a taker, I prepared dinner that night for my hosts. Ravioli with lemon infused olive oil, dab of fresh pesto, chopped broccoli, leeks (it is illegal to cook anything in England without leeks). I topped it off with fresh shaved cheese and toasted walnuts. The fresh bread was called sourdough by the local bakery. I guess because of the shape. I hate to get all new world and everything, but that was not sourdough. Still dinner was nice, we drank ginger beer, read stories to Patrick and threw in some cookies for dessert. Girl scout cookies, smuggled in a heavy suitcase all the way from SFO.
The next day I headed to The Tower of London, one of my favorite destinations. I like walking around the towers, listening in on the history, being dazzled by the crown jewels. The beefeater/guide (Phil) was fantastic. Very animated, chatty, witty and well-informed. Got some lesser known stories from him about the tower and an animated replay of the more commonly told ones. He ended the tour by answering the question he stated "Must surely be on the minds of every lady here." "Unfortunately, I do have plans for this evening.".
Before he broke our hearts, he took us into the chapel, my first time inside and walked along the stone floor listing out the bodies underneath our feet, all in unmarked graves, buried without ceremony. Piles of bones from centuries, too good to be put in commoner graves, too bad to be put in Westminster Abbey. Exiting, I walked gently-- half in awe of all the history and half scared that the ghost rumors were true and that I should be on my best behavior. Hopefully they will go after that one tourist that put on their hat before leaving the inside of the church and leave me alone.
It being a beautiful day, (beautiful, this time of year in London meaning not pouring down rain), I bundled myself up in gloves, heavy coat, scarf and a hat and walked along the river Thames. Taking pictures of all of the bridges. Tower Bridge (which most tourists mistakenly think is the London Bridge, because of it's ornate stone design), the London Bridge (the second, the first now residing in Lake Havasu, Arizona), Southwark Bridge, and finally to the Millennium Bridge. This bridge is not for those of you afraid of heights, but I love it. The steel slat and wire design, guiding me across the river to the Tate Modern.
The Tate Modern is another familiar haunt of mine when in London. I usually go to whatever the special exhibit is and then dance around the floors looking at favorite paintings and trying to find new ones to love. Exhausted from that much dancing, I sat for a spell in the cafe, chugging espresso and eating cookies. Eventually I filtered through the gift shop and headed down the other side of the river bank to get back to the tube. I passed by Shakespeare's Globe Theatre (not the first one, that got burned down, not the second, that gone torn down, but the third). Exhausted, I found my way to the British Library, eating a sandwich on the way. I did not do the library justice before it closed for the night and I owe myself a second look. Hopefully, there is more to come.
But wait, I'm not done. I decided to try this beer thing that the kids all talk about. Well, by beer I mean cider. I went into a decent looking pub and ordered a pint of cider. Of course, my accent makes it hard for people here to realize I am speaking their language. The bartender started to pour me a pear cider but I stopped her in time. I drank my pint, got on the tube and headed back to my three week long London home. I was getting hungry and had missed dinner, so stopped into another pub in the neighborhood for a stilton, mushroom and leek pie and chips (french fries if you speak American). This bartender asked me for the number of the table I was sitting at and he repeated the question three times but I still could not understand a word he was saying. Finally he made a sitting gesture and I said "16", then we both laughed. I told him "You should see how badly I do in France". I think I got extra chips for my wit, it was much too much food to finish. Interestingly enough even though I can't understand a damn word the English say to me, I still get mistaken for local from time to time. I gave directions twice, both of them correctly, one to someone from the UK and one where I did not even have to pull out the A to Z on my iPhone to give them accurately. I'm not bragging, I'm just saying...
The next day was about me braving the heart of one of the more touristy parts of London, Westminster. I started with a new-to-me museum (I'm trying to do that for at least half the trip, seeing what I haven't seen before, expansion), The Cabinet War Rooms and Winston Churchill Museum. You may have guessed that this particular locale had a lot to do with WWII. The museum itself is built into the bunkers that housed Churchill and his staff when things got heated up. Most of the rooms were left in tact or filled in later with furnishings from that period. There were loads of recordings and pictures of staff that had worked from there and a dazzling sampling of quotes from Churchill himself. Lots on his life, WWII and all in a fun underground setting not too far from 10 Downing Street where Prime Ministers live when not in bunkers.
After that, lunch break. I fought through crowds of tourists (damn tourists!) and school children to cross the Westminster bridge and meet Tessa for lunch at her work. We walked by that part of the River Thames and the London Eye. An area that is sort of like Pier 39 in a lot of ways. Lots of tourists, lost and scrambling about, water, and street performers spray painted silver. Alas, no sea lions here either.
Fueled by food, I plowed through the crowds on the bridge again and went into the Houses of Parliament to see how this whole two house government system is trying to work. I went for the House of Commons, desperately wanting them to yell at each other like everyone says they do. I believe the spattering of MP's in session that day were all on Valium. No one yelled, no shoes got thrown, no fist fights, boring. Like CSpan but with accents. Still, it was worth it. I loved being inside the building, sitting in my bullet proof glass perch and staring at government in "action".
I was a bit tired after all that sitting, but since Westminster Abbey was still open and across the street, it did seem insane to not peek in. I forgot how amazing it was. The sheer history, lives and deaths, wrapped up in those stones and altars. The mix of old and new. When you have been around since 960 and still a functioning church, there is a lot of time spanned. I spent the most time in the 'Poet's Corner' staring at the graves and memorials of writers that have fed me for most of my life. Some that I struggled with, some I still read on my iPhone to this day.
I like moving about the abbey at my own pace, peaking into corners, stopping when something catches my eye, checking out the flowers in bloom outside, wandering. Then I get out the audio guide and let them pace me through in the order they want me to follow. Stopping and listening, reading, more staring. Seeing what I didn't notice the first time around or hearing the history of what had caught my eye before. Layered tour taking. Try it.
To prove I am a giver as well a taker, I prepared dinner that night for my hosts. Ravioli with lemon infused olive oil, dab of fresh pesto, chopped broccoli, leeks (it is illegal to cook anything in England without leeks). I topped it off with fresh shaved cheese and toasted walnuts. The fresh bread was called sourdough by the local bakery. I guess because of the shape. I hate to get all new world and everything, but that was not sourdough. Still dinner was nice, we drank ginger beer, read stories to Patrick and threw in some cookies for dessert. Girl scout cookies, smuggled in a heavy suitcase all the way from SFO.
The next day I headed to The Tower of London, one of my favorite destinations. I like walking around the towers, listening in on the history, being dazzled by the crown jewels. The beefeater/guide (Phil) was fantastic. Very animated, chatty, witty and well-informed. Got some lesser known stories from him about the tower and an animated replay of the more commonly told ones. He ended the tour by answering the question he stated "Must surely be on the minds of every lady here." "Unfortunately, I do have plans for this evening.".
Before he broke our hearts, he took us into the chapel, my first time inside and walked along the stone floor listing out the bodies underneath our feet, all in unmarked graves, buried without ceremony. Piles of bones from centuries, too good to be put in commoner graves, too bad to be put in Westminster Abbey. Exiting, I walked gently-- half in awe of all the history and half scared that the ghost rumors were true and that I should be on my best behavior. Hopefully they will go after that one tourist that put on their hat before leaving the inside of the church and leave me alone.
It being a beautiful day, (beautiful, this time of year in London meaning not pouring down rain), I bundled myself up in gloves, heavy coat, scarf and a hat and walked along the river Thames. Taking pictures of all of the bridges. Tower Bridge (which most tourists mistakenly think is the London Bridge, because of it's ornate stone design), the London Bridge (the second, the first now residing in Lake Havasu, Arizona), Southwark Bridge, and finally to the Millennium Bridge. This bridge is not for those of you afraid of heights, but I love it. The steel slat and wire design, guiding me across the river to the Tate Modern.
The Tate Modern is another familiar haunt of mine when in London. I usually go to whatever the special exhibit is and then dance around the floors looking at favorite paintings and trying to find new ones to love. Exhausted from that much dancing, I sat for a spell in the cafe, chugging espresso and eating cookies. Eventually I filtered through the gift shop and headed down the other side of the river bank to get back to the tube. I passed by Shakespeare's Globe Theatre (not the first one, that got burned down, not the second, that gone torn down, but the third). Exhausted, I found my way to the British Library, eating a sandwich on the way. I did not do the library justice before it closed for the night and I owe myself a second look. Hopefully, there is more to come.
But wait, I'm not done. I decided to try this beer thing that the kids all talk about. Well, by beer I mean cider. I went into a decent looking pub and ordered a pint of cider. Of course, my accent makes it hard for people here to realize I am speaking their language. The bartender started to pour me a pear cider but I stopped her in time. I drank my pint, got on the tube and headed back to my three week long London home. I was getting hungry and had missed dinner, so stopped into another pub in the neighborhood for a stilton, mushroom and leek pie and chips (french fries if you speak American). This bartender asked me for the number of the table I was sitting at and he repeated the question three times but I still could not understand a word he was saying. Finally he made a sitting gesture and I said "16", then we both laughed. I told him "You should see how badly I do in France". I think I got extra chips for my wit, it was much too much food to finish. Interestingly enough even though I can't understand a damn word the English say to me, I still get mistaken for local from time to time. I gave directions twice, both of them correctly, one to someone from the UK and one where I did not even have to pull out the A to Z on my iPhone to give them accurately. I'm not bragging, I'm just saying...
The next day was about me braving the heart of one of the more touristy parts of London, Westminster. I started with a new-to-me museum (I'm trying to do that for at least half the trip, seeing what I haven't seen before, expansion), The Cabinet War Rooms and Winston Churchill Museum. You may have guessed that this particular locale had a lot to do with WWII. The museum itself is built into the bunkers that housed Churchill and his staff when things got heated up. Most of the rooms were left in tact or filled in later with furnishings from that period. There were loads of recordings and pictures of staff that had worked from there and a dazzling sampling of quotes from Churchill himself. Lots on his life, WWII and all in a fun underground setting not too far from 10 Downing Street where Prime Ministers live when not in bunkers.
After that, lunch break. I fought through crowds of tourists (damn tourists!) and school children to cross the Westminster bridge and meet Tessa for lunch at her work. We walked by that part of the River Thames and the London Eye. An area that is sort of like Pier 39 in a lot of ways. Lots of tourists, lost and scrambling about, water, and street performers spray painted silver. Alas, no sea lions here either.
Fueled by food, I plowed through the crowds on the bridge again and went into the Houses of Parliament to see how this whole two house government system is trying to work. I went for the House of Commons, desperately wanting them to yell at each other like everyone says they do. I believe the spattering of MP's in session that day were all on Valium. No one yelled, no shoes got thrown, no fist fights, boring. Like CSpan but with accents. Still, it was worth it. I loved being inside the building, sitting in my bullet proof glass perch and staring at government in "action".
I was a bit tired after all that sitting, but since Westminster Abbey was still open and across the street, it did seem insane to not peek in. I forgot how amazing it was. The sheer history, lives and deaths, wrapped up in those stones and altars. The mix of old and new. When you have been around since 960 and still a functioning church, there is a lot of time spanned. I spent the most time in the 'Poet's Corner' staring at the graves and memorials of writers that have fed me for most of my life. Some that I struggled with, some I still read on my iPhone to this day.
I like moving about the abbey at my own pace, peaking into corners, stopping when something catches my eye, checking out the flowers in bloom outside, wandering. Then I get out the audio guide and let them pace me through in the order they want me to follow. Stopping and listening, reading, more staring. Seeing what I didn't notice the first time around or hearing the history of what had caught my eye before. Layered tour taking. Try it.
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