London II - The Tube, the Tower, and the Cathedral

Every so often one of those days comes along when I have to thank Whatever that there are other people in the world. A day when I am so scatterbrained that if not for the grace of others, I would collapse into a pile of trembling goo.

That Thursday, my last full day in England for the year, started innocently enough. Ihling had returned the car to Enterprise the previous evening, so we met up in the Holiday Inn lobby around 8:30, called the taxi company, and settled down for our normal breakfasts. Coffee, juice, cereal. The cabbie turned up, then hustled us and our bags into his Ford Escort, and we sped off into the morning Cheltenham rush. According to the timetable I had retained from my last London excursion, a few days prior, the eastbound trains came around the X:40 times. After a transfer at Swindon, and traveling through Stroud and Reading, the total travel time to Paddington should be between 2 hours and 2 and a quarter hours. So, arrival at that hub around 12 should give me time to go see the Tower, and would give Chris time to get to Heathrow for his extended travel home. I had pulled a Tube map and schedule (really unnecessary, just the routes and first/last times of the day for the Tube make the schedule) from the Internet, so I had a pretty good idea of the strands of the web which would take me to King's Cross hub (Kings X), the KingsX Holiday Inn being my stopover for the evening. KingsX and the hotel were in turn adjacent to the St. Pancras terminus for the Eurostar to Paris I had booked the next day. We arrived at the station, return tickets ready-to-go, bags beside us on the platform, waiting for the 9:41 to Swindon.

Was I sentimental about leaving Cheltenham? Not particularly. There wasn't a whole lot of pretty in this town to be gushy about. The people seemed for the most part silent and unfriendly. Most of the time, I felt like a ghost wandering around in the grand arcade of the High Street, watching the pale forms of other spirits trying not to touch each other. It's an emotionally distant place. Even with the holiday coming, and shopping season, and crowds, I never caught a hum of excitement or anticipation or joy while exploring up and down the streets. The most vibrant people I had met (other than Chris) turned out to be expats, another American Chris who tended bar at the Revolution chain outlet, our UK lead at work (another Chris, :-) ) from South Africa, very animated and technically savvy guy, Ken and Gaz, brothers (also from South Africa) we'd met in a pub during an American Football game, and assorted goer-outers: an Argentine lady, several Indian student types, two Canadian-Francophone girls, a supernice Canadian dude (another Football follower), a Polish co-guest at the hotel, ... Most of the staff at the restaurants we did frequent seemed very nice as well, but I would estimate that 75% were nonnatives, many from Poland or Slovakia or the Czech Republic, for instance. The exceptions to the implied rule, and there were [GJF: are, 2/2009] many, included the bartender, Gregg, at the Copa, very dynamic and outgoing, our counter staff at the hotel, Peter and Ayla and Jessica and Zoe came to mind [GJF: more have arrived now, 2/2009], and Aliina at work, our shepherdess. So, anything to miss? Nah, nothing specific. But it's a working suburban town. It would be like going to Newark or Amityville and expecting people to entertain you and be outgoing. Not going to happen. Not everywhere can be like Florida, I suppose. Or parts of Alaska.

It had warmed quite a bit, making my days in Paris look to be pretty good - we chatted about the weather to be expected on the continent and in London and whiled away the time with discussions about work-planning and activities left to be done. When the 9:41 arrived, we boarded, loaded our bags, and plopped into the seats, continuing to explore the future development of work details. The ride to Swindon was pretty short, and we caught our transfer to the Paddington train with barely enough time to hit the loo first. The doors closed, and Chris and I loaded our luggage into the racks, except... I had no backpack! Oh crap! Oh sh*t! God damn moron! Where could I have left it? I certainly had it on the train to Swindon, I remembered putting it in the rack there, and Chris, caught up in my excited self-flagellation, confirmed at least that much. But had I left it on the Swindon train? Was it sitting on Platform 2 in Swindon? Had I left it in the bathroom? Damndamndamn. There was not a whole lot I could do, trapped in this metal tube for at least another 20 minutes. Where? Who? I took some small comfort in the fact that I keep my hard drive fully encrypted so at least there was no professional liability (aside from the $1800 computer!). I sought out a conductor. The lady I found was distantly sympathetic, the stock response, "Well, sir, I think you can get off at the next station and talk to the staff." Crap! All right, calm down. This isn't Paris or Italy. All of the people I'd met so far seemed honest and upright to a fault. Not to mention there was surveillance at every corner in the stations and on the trains. I dropped into a vivid Bournesque fantasy of chasing down the movements of some shady character by time-lapse camera and undergoing some covert mission to recover the 'package'. Good god! Stupid stupid stupid! A disembodied voice announced the train's imminent arrival at Didcot Parkway. Having passed through here three times already, the nuclear towers adjacent (!) to the north side of the tracks also gave me a good clue.

I said goodbye and good luck to Ihling, he said the same, our farewell truncated and punctuated by the train's abruptness. Gah! Clutching my two (not three!) bags, I followed the 'Information Desk' signs into the Didcot station. I cornered a flagman who had innocently come in for a sip of his coffee. "Hey, uh, I may have left my bag on the train or platform..." He jumped into action. I mean, JUMPED! up from his seat and grabbed the radio. "Which platform, sir, where - platform 2? 3?" I went on, "...in Swindon. I came from Cheltenham and transferred off to catch the one that just left..." He calmed visibly. I guess it was a personal point of pride to have nothing lost in *his* station. It almost made me smile. "Right!" He brought out a pen. I was dreading what would come next... forms in triplicate, no doubt, passport information, description of contents, serial numbers, ... oi veh. I was wrong. Too much Monty Python. "So what's your name, then? And what did it look like?" "Gerhard Feichtinger. Eff-as-in-frank-ee-eye-see-aich-er, haitch-tee-... and it's a red bag with black straps. A victorinox, with the swiss flag blazoned on?" He nodded, noting way too much to be explained by my short commentary. I imagined him writing: "Bloody stupid git Yank. German name. Left goner bag at Swindon. Red. Run him round a bit and watch video later." Wrong again. One phone call. "OK, mate, we'll have a call down to the station master in Swindon in a bit. You come back and check with us, here, soon, all right? Going home for Christmas, eh?" I stuttered and stammered out that yeah, I was looking forward to at least the next couple of weeks home to visit with the kids and some friends in Florida, and maybe was coming back next year. He nodded emphatically, "Yeah-r, I got my kids coming from Yorkshire next week too. Gonna be a great holiday! You all right now then, young man?" I thanked this guy (Albert), probably embarrassingly too many times, and went down through the Didcot lobby to the cafe. I set my bags down and had a coffee and a chocolate-chocolate-chip cookie. They complemented each other really well, I remember. Then I wandered back to the help desk. "Yeah-r, they found it for you. You got to get over to plaform 4, hop the next train going back, and then cross to the help desk at platform 1 in Swindon, and go to the desk there, all right? All sorted?" Wow. Yeah, I was sorted. I mean, this guy might have thought I was soft in the head or something, or maybe he was just really thorough and genuinely nice. Gen-u-ine-ly. Thanks, Albert and the First Great Western crew running that line. I jumped the train, a little concerned about the lack of a valid ticket despite reassurances to the contrary, and slumped in the seat next to my bags. I started a little paradigm shift there. Disembarked at Swindon and switched to the other platform. Help desk again. Easy-peasy, got the bag, after showing my passport and describing it, of course. The gentleman at Swindon gave me a comment card to fill out. Which I did, front and back. Profusely thanking the folks at Didcot and Swindon for helping me. I dropped it back on the now-vacant help desk, the flagman/conductor off to see another load of people on their way. I crossed back to platform two via the Swindon subtrack walkway, made sure I had everything, and 5 or 6 minutes later, was back on track to Paddington, after an humbling hour-and-a-half.

People are people. It's easy for me to pick on the English in this blog for being uptight and cold and unfriendly, and they'll generally agree with me (at least the ones I have met in Gloucestershire), I have found. There's nothing in here that I haven't said to the staff in the Holiday Inn or (a couple of) the folks at work. Believe me, I am so fed up with so much of the ignorance and hypocrisy and laziness I see in the US, I would puke if I didn't laugh at it. So, don't take me the wrong way. The English are industrious and observant and conscientious. Their society has taken these traits, wrapped it all in a Machine and Bureaucracy and Tradition and "Just-So"ness and WEIGHT that we Americans can't even conceive of, and made them live in the result. I also find the exaggerations humorous. So I will continue. But this day made me careful of taking myself too seriously when stereotyping. People are. Simply put, people are. But I still say that day-to-day English food sucks.

So I arrived in Paddington with all my stuff, receipts, gifts, bags, computer, everything. And only about 1 1/2 hours late, at about 1:20 in the afternoon. That kind of threw a wrench into the works, but solved a different problem. I had originally planned on storing my bags at St. Pancras, but now I would be able to make the reservation at the Holiday Inn. I had originally called the Kings X HI a few days prior, right after I made my reservation, and asked if I could have an early check-in. The not-so-with-it clerk who answered the phone, and who "couldn't understand my accent" after about 20 minutes ended up forwarding me to some anonymous management weenie who in turn enforced the 2:00 "reservation-as-listed" rule, but he would happily watch my bags for 5 GBP apiece. Wow, what a great guy you are, you nameless jerk. Paddington, Heathrow, or St. Pancras's left-luggage counters would have stored the bags for (average of) 7 pounds per day for both, in a 'big' locker. That had the questionable advantage that I would be able to leave them or one or the other for the whole of the Paris trip. I was still on-the-fence about that plan, partially because the hours were sketchy - Kings X operated from 7 am (too late) to 11 pm, and St. Pancras operated from 6 am to 10 pm (too early). Heathrow was just plain out-of-the-way, especially with me running late. Luckily, that decision was made for me. I couldn't sacrifice the Tube-orienting trip it would have taken to do all that traveling and still make the Tower. Heck, I probably wouldn't make the Tower as it was! 4:00 comes along quickly. I had to get the Tube to Kings X, jump out, run down to the hotel, check in, run the bags up, run back down, back to the station, and south to the Tower Hill stop. It sounded like a lot of Tubing, and I am well aware of my tendency for absorption in detail (sounds much nicer than distraction from reality). So I bought a Tube day-pass for 5 or 6 GBP. It was about the cost of 3 single-journeys within Zone 1. I was a little trepidacious about it, but got over that quickly. Luckily the Circle (yellow) line - which I got on in the *correct* direction! - had not packed up at that point. I minded the Gap, and managed to get my bags aboard and situated in front of me with a minimum of nasty glares from the Londonites. The Underground train clicked and rattled along merrily, no flickering lights, no conversations in the carriage to distract from the trainy noises coming from under our feet. I bobbled my head and bounced along merrily enough, watching the signs for the platforms go by, and checking the schematic over the door in anticipation.

So I came into the King's Cross station, disembarked, once again Minding the Gap, and promptly followed the signs through a quarter-mile of subway (walkway below the street) the wrong street exit. The one that had been blocked up. Under construction. Impassable. Ugh. Back that quarter-mile, along another quarter-mile to another exit! Not horrific, but a long walk, and I welcomed the English half-light's relief from the nagging underground fluorescent flicker when I exited at the Thameslink building. After emerging into the daylight, I checked my trusty map, and oriented on a convenient corner. South it was! Luggage in tow, I crossed and re-crossed King's Cross Road - undeterred by the alternate-corner road works blocking my path. My bag bumped merrily on its wheels down and up the curbs and across the storm drains. I passed several sketchy-looking places, a tattoo parlor or two, some fryer joints, a couple of very dark pubs, and two brand-new hotels with guard goon squads lurking around the front (mine would be the third). Once I left the environment of the stations, it didn't look like there would be a whole lot of light or traffic along this road. I wasn't too worried, it looked more seedy-charming than dodgy-dangerous. About 3/4 mile down the road, I came to the freshly-asphalted driveway of the Holiday Inn King's Cross. I climbed up the sharp-cornered concrete steps, strode between the two doorguards, and brushed my hand along the freshly-shined brass railing to the glass doors which whooshed accomodatingly open. Wow! Swank, for a Holiday Inn! And only two pounds more per night than the Express HI in Cheltenham! I made my way across the derby green carpet (clean brass-border leading to a polished marbly floor), to the desk, and rang the bell. Less than 15 seconds later a staff of two younger folks came out, one with a manager tag, and the other with a tag bearing the HI logo, next to the word 'TRAINEE'. Well, well. I considered giving them a hard time about my luggage woes, but I was here, and thankful to have my stuff. The manager asked me politely for my name and reservation, to which I replied with my passport and credit card. Transaction complete, the TRAINEE handed me my room key and wished me (sir) good night in a very thick Slavic accent. I guess I was going to bed! I shook my head a little bit, and said 'See ya later!'. The 'lift' occupied a small hallway off the right of the grand mahogany desk, and it was waiting to carry me to Floor 7. Once the mirrored doors parted, revealing some more of the short-cropped rich green carpeting, I made use of the convenient room-arrows to find 742. Bags dropped, Internet set, and Chris's (anticipated) email responded-to. Check-check-check! A quick freshen-up and then I was off - back to the Tube!

I strolled back through the charming neighborhood around the station, after nodding at the impassive hotel guards, and found my way back to the Thameslink entrance. A couple-stop ride later, after rolling through some of the easterly platforms on the Center line, I arrived at the Tower Hill Underground station. Signs pointed me to the surface, and I warily followed them, not knowing which of the four exits to take, but hoping there would be convenient surface directions. The Tower is a big tourist attraction, after all. Climbing back to the daylight, having randomly chosen an exit from the Tower Hill Underground, I oriented and followed the brown (helpful) English Heritage signs to the Tower plaza. The sky was starting to dim on me, and I checked my watch... 3:45! How the heck could it have gotten so late so soon? I knew I would never make the jewels last-call at 4:00, so I reluctantly gave up hope on that part of the tour. However, the tower/castle and the riverwalk along the Thames would still be open! The pictures I had seen promised me a street-fair, laughing children, cheerily garbed English folks, hordes of tourists with cameras, food stalls galore pumping out fried anything and beer by the gallon, and other such wonderful things!

A funny thing about England is its climate. A day that looks gorgeous and feels good can end up chilling you to the bone after being out in it for a half hour. This was one of those afternoons. Anyway, there certainly were a handful of tourists milling about the plaza near the tower, snapping photos of the Tower, Tower Bridge, and the (New) London Bridge. Two of the hot-chocolate vendors were open for business, briskly selling funnel cakes and hot beverages and hot chocolate with Bailey's. I ignored all that, excuse-me'd my way past a group of Asian ladies trying to make heads and tails of the sign at the ticket office and walked up to the counter. I looked over some of the merchandise on display and asked for "one adult, please." The primly-dressed lady looked at me a little quizzically. "Sir, it's almost 4..." I thanked her for the time check, as Big Ben wasn't quite in view from the Tower Plaza, but reassured her that I knew what time it was. "Ah, sir, just you?" Yes. "That'll be sixteen pounds fifty, and there are no more tours for the day." Whoa! WHOA! I saw 4.70 on the Internet, a fact which I mentioned to her quite restrainedly and politely. She nodded vigorously in response, "Yes, sir, those are promotional combinations with certain hotels and other sights, it's an 'adder'." Wow! $25 for 45 minutes, maybe an hour? I had to pass. She was right, I'd be cheating the Tower and its heritage trying to cram that in. It would be like trying to 'do' the Louvre in an hour and a half. And the Louvre was only 6 euros after 6 pm (til 9:45, I had checked that already :-), three-plus hours would be a good taste). I thanked her for her foresight, and made to walk away. I must have frowned or pouted a little bit. "Sir, if I may?" Yes, of course... "The walk along the river is wonderful in the evenings, and it will bring you down the Embankment. It would be an evening well-spent." Thank you, ticket lady. All right, new plan. Walk down the Thames. Something everyone should do when in London. I proceeded back out to Tower Plaza and looked, really looked at the Tower Bridge and London Bridge. Not to mention the Castle itself. Incredible medievalness. The tower bridge and tower castle seemed to hint at hidden secrets, ages of pain and triumph and war and intrigue. I could make out the crests on the bridge as well from the plaza, especially when I walked out the pier a little. The tower castle itself looked like it had been built in at least four stages - two areas were absolutely haphazard and threatened to crumble as I watched (scaffolding was in place), and two seemed made with ready-cut stone and better mortar. I was looking at the preservation of Pride, the endurance of a wonderful Culture that had conquered the world. Wow. I grabbed a coffee from a vendor, a few steps away and sat quietly staring at these two monuments for a while, letting my thoughts and sympathies run forward with their histories and traditions. It was a good feeling. It connected me to the predecessor of my native culture, consumer-masked as it is, we are still English-derived in the US. The meditation went on until the thoughts wound themselves out. I turned right and faced the London Bridge, a little to the West of the Tower Bridge.

Chris had told me an interesting fact about the London Bridge. It's in Arizona! I was incredulous, so I ran to Wikipedia, that less-than-authoritative guru. It turns out there have been many 'London Bridges'... there had been a bridge on that site since, literally, time immemorial. The 1800's version, "Rennie's Bridge," had been sold by the city to an American (Robert McCulloch) for about US$2,500,000 in 1968. It has been reconstructed at Lake Havasu, Arizona. The bridge in place now dates from 1970 or so. But the history of Romans, fires, Saxons, Vikings, and the struggle with the growth of London traffic is an interesting read in and of itself, and parallels the growth of London as the center of this part of the world. The new bridge isn't really pretty, but its lighting at night is surreal, and fits the understated Thames neighborhood well. After reflecting on my reading, and chuckling at similarities between humans and ants, I scanned the riverbanks. There is an interesting globe-shaped (dome-shaped?) building visible from the Tower plaza, and it's sort of spooky - its modern design really makes it stand out, and its night lighting certainly gives the riverfront some character, modern character maybe, but still character. I looked up later that evening what the heck the thing was, and it turns out it is a completely (!) green building, City Hall, the center of London City Government. Great aesthetic for a municipal building, for sure! Interesting area. I immediately decided that upon a return trip to London, if it ever happened, the Tower would be the morning, and the City Hall would be the afternoon. Line that up...

After the Tower Plaza began to clear out around 5, I decided to follow the Thames and see where my feet might take me for dinner. I walked on and a few blocks off the main roads, heading westward toward St. Paul's Cathedral, which the Internet mentioned would be a good sight at night. Walking and tummy-grumbling, I weaved on and off the narrow riverside paths and streets, seeking a good-looking and likely place to eat. I passed the "Hung, Drawn, and Quartered Pub" which had me laughing so hard I'm surprised some English folks didn't offer me money. But I had pretty much had it with pubs. I wanted to sit somewhere and eat. I was in the wrong neighborhood. Apparently, Thursday night is sandwich night in London. Pret-a-manger and other stand-up self-serve automat clones ruled this neighborhood. Sad-looking pre-wrapped club sandwiches and bags of crisps peered out from the windows and shelves mournfully toward the street. I couldn't do it. I don't do premade sandwiches. Uck. So I decided to head for the nearest 'shopping' district, once I saw a sign directing me to shop MORE, "Queen's Walk" or something like that, just north of the main street. I didn't think I had passed St. Paul's yet, although it was difficult to find street names to match with my map in this alley-riddled area of town. So I decided a couple of blocks north, through the arcade, and then west if nothing tickled my fancy. Pubs. Subway. Bleh. Nothing special, more US-led stores begging me to buy clothes or video games, everything on 'SALE'! I caught a glimpse of a 'Cheapside' sign. Ha. Turning west, I turned the corner around a construction site and stopped. For about 3 minutes, probably, but it felt like a half-hour. St. Paul's was there.

I get a tingly feeling typing about it even now. I had just wound my way through close-packed victorian-(re)modeled arcades and pubs with micro-courtyards, wandering through close dockside alleys and the dregs of modernist shopping malls and ready-to-eat sandwich shops. And, suddenly, everything opened to this ENORMOUS Romanesque dome, with two blocks of lovely green clipped and tendered grass in front, set back from all other buildings in the area. This was my first glimpse of a building of this stature and solidity. The dome dominated one-quarter of my field of view. The squat body of the building covered most of the rest, with the field of green pleasantly trailing off the sides. It was light in a cunning fashion, the highlights giving the Basilica more visual weight (if that were possible), and tempting me to draw in closer. What a fabulous surprise, what an enormous culture shock! I was in my second realignment of the day. And Paul, of course, was a fitting catalyst for that. I strolled softly around the cathedral, noting the construction works, just in awe at every new angle presented of this magnificent edifice. Wow! It bore down on me, hugely just... present. Heavy. There was no refuge from it. Everything receded to the background. I saw the steps from "Mary Poppins" and had a flashback to my childhood, that minor-keyed song that Julie Andrews sang oh so sweetly about the bag lady. I came across an old guy, sitting on a bench, and my heart suddenly raced. It was a weird deja-vu. I said "Good, evening." And then my mouth must have hung open. "Impressive, isn't it?" he asked. I replied that impressive wasn't the word. It was staged to be dominating. Dominating is the word for St. Paul's from that side, or probably any. The man suggested I take a look inside and then bid me good evening, producing a very small dog from somewhere and strolling off. He may have said more, but the third great presence in the conversation occupied well over half my attention, as I'm sure was evident to him. Inside? Dare I? At night? All that stone over my head? I found my way to the front entrance, which was open (no fee or booth), and pushed the human-sized revolving door to the vestibule, trying my best to ignore the impact of the behemothan cathedral portals on my left. St. Pauls looks old on the inside. Not in a dusty sense, but in a 400,000,000-people-have-been-here sense. The altar was radiant, the markers on the sides of Saint regalia inspiring. The columnwork was exquisite but solid. I had read that a piece of Paul's cross is under the altar. That seed has surely sprouted gravitas in spades. Sobered, I went as close to the Basilica (dome interior) as I could. Angels chased each other on the ceiling, clouds and doves played along. It was all surrounded by (I would guess) mosaics of Paul and Jesus and other Saints. Incredible work, light and somber at the same time. Inspiring and intimidating and playful and incredible. I happily put my last 3 pounds cash in the collection box for this experience on my way out. Despite the no-photographs, which usually irritates me. Wow.

After another walk around the cathedral, I decided that was enough for the evening. I would grab some kind of food closer to the hotel. Or at the hotel. Or something. Luckily, my London map had an Underground schematic on it, and Blackfriars (on the Circle Line) seemed pretty close to St. Pauls. Since I had seen Underground signposts all along the main roads for the various stations I passed, I assumed that once I got out to the main street, it would be easy to find the terminal. You see, the street portion of my Pocket-London map didn't reach to the Blackfriars area. Nor to the Tower. Just about from Queensway to Parliament. But I knew, or thought I remembered, from my web surfing, that the Blackfriars was along the river, so the main street should have some indication. Sure enough, after minor turnarounds, I made it to the drag and saw a 'Blackfriars' arrow. And there was a grocery store one street adjacent to the station! Hot damn! Soda and candy! Mmmmmm. I blazed into the Tesco Metro, almost shoving aside the junkies filling the anteway, scootched up a couple of liters of coke and 2 big Cadbury candy bars. Yay o yay! I went to pay, and whipped out my trusty Visa. The guy looked at it, looked at me, looked at it, rolled his eyes, and muttered 'Oi.' I put my best quizzical expression on. He said something about chip-and-pin and not using swipe cards and other stuff. Me, having been informed to the contrary on the Internet (!) said to the guy - "Look, man, you're required to take these if you take those. What you have to do is swipe it and wait 20 seconds. Please? I'm starving and need to get some rest. This is my last stop for the night." He grumbled and turned his monitor toward me, and together we worked out how I could use my card. It worked! Armed with my new treasures I made my way to the Blackfriars gate. Closed! Construction? Dammit! I tried desperately to remember my London geography, a way to get back to the mapped area.

There is a main road, Farringdon, that goes north from the Thames area right back to Kings Cross Road. I packed my stuff in the backpack and began hiking up Farringdon. I passed a bunch of shuttered shops, a few "Pret"s, and some dodgy-looking back streets. Farringdon wound me straight north, more or less, except when it came to a triangle-T intersection. None of the roads were marked, of course. I would later figure out and come to accept that it is a European habit to NOT mark roads. Especially main ones. I guess the assumption is, if you are on it, you know where you are. Or you are in a cab or bus. Not too many tourists walking around confused half the time. Ha. I made my way into a small cluster of shops (Exmouth), containing a Starbucks, a Costa, a few pubs, and... a Turkish Restaurant (Sofra)! Seats and all! Wi-fi? Gratis! Holey moley! They looked like they were just getting started for their dinner rush, about 8 or 10 diners inside, munching happily away on feta and pita or various terrines. All right!

I ducked in, and looked at the prix-fixe. All 8 appetisers and lamb with prune terrine, please. 14 pounds? Sold! And a diet-coke, please! The lamb was soft and cinnamony and combined with the stewed prunes made a concoction on my palate that was alien and soothing at the same time. Easily better than pub fare, and cheaper here in London. Big Score! The appetiser special was not much to write home about, unfortunately. The hummus was underspiced and over-oily. The tabbouleh was ok, but I think they missed a wash on the parsley, there was a little bit of grit. But definitely something hot and a place to sit! I grabbed my phone out of my pack and switched on the Wi-fi... Wahoo! Texted a few friends on the IM application, finished up, paid with my swipey card and no hassles, and dashed out the door - it was getting late!

After I took off, I had to run back because I forgot my backpack inside (d'oh!), then I got turned around at the T a few times, of course, but eventually made it heading north back to King's Cross. I wound my way through the emerging crowds filling the low-rent area, punks, tattooers, and junkies, mostly. Or just kids. Take your pick. Again, no menace, noone even came close to bugging me. A few smiles and nods in fact! If I had been of a mind, and if I had not needed to get up at 4 am, I would have considered checking out a couple of the pubs there - it looked like it was beginning to wind up for a big night! But alas, that was not to be. I slid into the HI-KX and said "Good Night" to the TRAINEE, who responded 'Cheers!' Elevator. Hall. Door. Checked email again, and texted with some friends, ate my candy, drank my soda, and passed out about 9:30, visions of 'Gay Paris' distracting my sleep.

Map: London II

Album: Facebook - "London - Ye Olde Parte Foure"


[GJF: Written 27 February 2009]