The weather this weekend was about as perfect as London gets in October: crisp, but dry. The perfect climate for wandering around London as the final countdown begins.
The weekend started early on Friday, with lunch with friends in Spitalfields Market...boozy for them, but not me, as I have trapped a nerve in my back and am taking many a narcotic to deal with the pain. Lunch turned into wandering around the market, saying hello and so long to some of my favorite local designers who display their wares on Friday afternoons. Market wandering turned into meeting friends at a wine bar for more drinking (sigh) later Friday evening.
Given my non-hungover status, I was up and fresh as a daisy quite early on Saturday morning. As letting agents are still trooping through the flat, I decided it was best to get gone as soon as I could. I took the boat to London Bridge, and as it was early enough to avoid the crowds, nipped into Borough Market (any doubts yet that it's my favorite place in London? How much do I talk about it?). I bought breakfast and plunked myself on a rock on Winchester Walk, a side street that runs behind the market, from which one can view the hustle and bustle, and gaze at Southwark Cathedral, relatively uninterrupted. The only people that passed by were a few uniformed traffic wardens, and a butcher from the Ginger Pig, in his striped red and white apron, white shirt, and black trousers.
I tried to get into Monmouth for a flat white but the lineup was by this time snaking out the door and around the corner, and so I nipped instead into Konditor & Cook, the famous pastry shop, which happens to be next door to Monmouth, and doesn't make a bad cappucino. To my surprise, the chalkboard listing the day's specials proudly proclaimed, "Pumpkin pie! Delicious and spicy!" I immediately told the cashier I needed a piece, as it had been Canadian Thanksgiving the week before. He rolled his eyes. "I know," he said. "Four of our staff are Canadian, why do you think we're even selling this?" "Oh," I said, a bit deflated. "Well, it makes me very happy to see it so please box up a piece for me anyway." I popped the box into my extra large handbag and was off again.
I continued to wander along the south side of the river, on the Thames Path. I passed a large group on a walking tour, standing in a semi-circle around their tour guide, near the Clink Prison. I stumbled upon a family standing on some stone steps leading from the Globe Theatre down into the Thames, who were holding each other tightly while someone read from a piece of paper. They were obviously grieving; I had stumbled upon some memorial for a loved one. I hurried past, not wanting to intrude on a private moment.
My next destination was Tate Modern. There is currently an interactive installation in the vast Turbine Hall called, "How It Is," by the Polish artist Miroslaw Balka. He has constructed an immense metal shipping container several stories tall, which visitors are encouraged to enter via an enormous ramp. I stood at the foot of the ramp and looked into the container, which is as wide as it is tall: all I could see was a yawning blackness that seemed much larger than the dimensions of the container, which I had walked around. Don't get me wrong, it's mammoth, but it ain't infinite. Still, the darkness seemed to continue forever and somehow, I began to believe that it did go on forever, that it stretched beyond the confines of the box. I strode up the ramp and into the container, towards the blackness. After a few steps, when I was out of range of the faint light at the entrance, I began to feel somewhat nervous and claustrophobic, afraid I would bump into someone, or a wall. I couldn't see more than a foot in front of me. I tentatively edged to the right side of the container, and placed my hand on the wall to guide myself. It was covered in black velvet. Using my hand as a guide, I confidently moved forward, until I unexpectedly hit a wall in front of me. Startled, I put my hands out. The infinite abyss? Well, it was only more black velvet. I felt disappointed that it was over, that I hadn't reached whatever imaginary destination on the black horizon I had felt I was moving towards. At once, the reality of the container and its dimensions returned and I felt silly for not having anticipated the wall. I turned and made my way out of the container feeling a bit like I had been had.
I continued to skulk around Tate Modern, and of course paid a visit to their store, which I think it one of the best museum stores around. Then it was out again into the fall air, and down to Royal Festival Hall, to peruse the acres of card tables holding used books for sale, trailing my fingers over the book spines as I leaned down (painfully) to read their titles. A bit of lunch, and then it was time to head to the Young Vic to see Jane Horrocks in "Annie Get Your Gun."
The production was delightful. The "orchestra" was four pianists, in western gear, playing at upright pianos built into the stage. The MD was wearing a sheriff's badge, which any musical theatre bunny can tell you is oh-so-appropriate. Jane Horrocks was, as usual, amazing as Annie. The ensemble was fantastic, and it was kitschy and glitzy and tassled and fringed and everything you expect this classic to be. It was so great that I found myself tearing up, when there is *nothing* to cry at in "Annie." I immediately phoned my mother when I got home and said, "I have to do that. Enough of this lawyering business, I need to do that." She agreed, but until the student loans are paid there will be more lawyering than theatre-ing, and that is just my reality. Still, I was singing "There's No Business Like Show Business" for the rest of the night.
Sunday morning was another early start. My friend Ben and I argued over text message about where we would meet for brunch, I was eventually persuaded to meet him on Marylebone High Street, where he lives, so I once again boarded the early boat and found myself wandering through Covent Garden by 10:30 am. Covent Garden is always subdued on a Sunday, as the theatres are dark, and especially at 10:30 on a Sunday, as shops aren't open and the tourists have not yet arrived; for this reason it is one of my favorite times to visit its cobblestoned streets. I stopped in Neal's Yard for a coffee and to read the paper, and then was off walking up Tottenham Court Road, through Fitzroy Square, to Marylebone. Ben and I sat outside in the fall sunshine at Le Pain Quotidien, nursing coffees in cups large enough to be soup bowls, and then popped in and out of shops along the street before heading to Selfridge's as Ben needed wine for a dinner party that evening. Selfridges' Food Hall is always an experience; not as extravagant as Harrods' but a treat nonetheless. It was already festooned with Christmas trees, garlands and red and green lights.
A slight flaw in the perfect London weekend when I entered Bond Street tube station, on my way to Waterloo and the Old Vic to see Kevin Spacey in "Inherit the Wind." Bond Street and Waterloo are both on the Jubilee Line, so this should have been an easy jaunt. However, Transport for London had once again shut the Jubilee Line for construction work and so I was forced to squeeze onto a Central Line train to Oxford Circus where I could switch to the Bakerloo Line. The platforms and the trains at both stations were absolutely packed, which always puts me in a bad mood: I hate it when people stand directly in front of you on the platform so they can push onto a train first, I hate it when people try to stand on the same step as you on the escalator, I hate it when people are in such a rush they feel it absolutely necessary to almost knock you down to get to the "Way Out" before you. Anyways, the journey was somewhat longer than anticipated and I was afraid I'd be late, but I still made it in time for curtain. Anything with My Kevin in it is fantastic, so no more needs to be said about the play.
By the time the play ended, I was tuckered out from a weekend of walking, and felt a wave of exhaustion hit me as I walked onto the pier at Waterloo only to see my boat pulling away without me. I sighed, and sat down on the dock. As anxious as I was to get home, I had to admit that this was the perfect place to rest for a minute and be still: the London Eye towered above me, but the dock was empty and silent. I stared across the water at Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, illuminated. I watched party boats cruise up and down the river. All alone, I silently contemplated London, stretched out before me. To be alone and to feel this view is a display just for you, is a rare gift in this city. Sometimes missing your boat can be a blessing. I felt echoes of that old London excitement as I sat there, excitement that had mellowed into fondness, and a quiet appreciation.
So, now there are 11 days left for me in London. I have to admit that now I am anxious to go. I just want to be home and start this next chapter.
