Virginia Woolf said, “The streets of London have their map, but our passions are uncharted.  What are you going to meet if you turn this corner?” I will tell you what I met:  a new friend.  What I mean is, I felt like I fit in right away. London may have been a city for 2000 years, but to me it was all brand new, and seeing it for the first time is like when you’re 16, and you see a handsome boy and know that you are intrigued.

London intrigued me as soon as I stepped off the train from Edinburgh into King’s Cross St. Pancras Station, where a woman was singing opera to the backdrop of a piano right there in the terminal.

I caught the Tube to Victoria Station.  It was hot, the air stale as bad breath, and so many bodies packed on the subway train I wondered how they could all fit.  A person tripped over my bag and then apologized to me with a very curt, British “Sorry!” and then ignored me as I mumbled “No worries!” I had about six stops to go, and enjoyed the voice-over announcements telling me to “mind the gap.”  A couple of stops after I got on, a middle-aged American couple boarded, the woman looking rather pained and nervous, and her husband a bit aggrieved.  She kept saying, “I don’t think this is the right train,” and he kept replying, “Maybe you’re right.”

So one ugly American to another, I said, “Where are you going?”

“We want to go to Victoria Station.”

“Oh, but you’re fine then.  This train goes to Victoria Station.”

“Are you sure?”

Reader, I wasn’t sure initially which is why I missed the first train that got to the track as I did, but there was a very convenient listing of the stops on the wall tile after the train departed, so I knew that the second train I boarded was going in the right direction.

“Oh, yes, quite sure.”

“Thank you so much. Everything is so confusing here.”

When we arrived at Victoria Station, everyone piled off the train and made their way out into the late afternoon.  Google’s map directions bewildered me a little bit, but I wandered the way it suggested, and I managed to get to my AirBnB, a single room in an apartment about 10 minutes away.  The room was nothing special, but the bed was so much better than where I was staying in Edinburgh, so I was perfectly comfortable.  I thought about going out for dinner, but the truth was, the first class coach on the train down from Scotland fed us a chalkwater trout supper with broccolini and couscous (free!), plus an apple tart, so I wasn’t overly hungry.  But I was tired after teaching and travel, so I settled down into my room and read for a few hours.

The next day, I had great plans to wake up early to go exploring, but instead I slept in. (Traveling always takes it out of me.)

I made my way to the Victoria Coach Station to catch a 1:00 bus tour around the city which would culminate in a cream tea service at Harrod’s.  I arrived at the station, and waited patiently to be called to my bus, but even though the sign said “Afternoon Tea Tour” the people managing the tour called it a “Vintage Tour” so I never got on and they left without me!  I had asked twice at the gate if this was the tea tour and was told, “No, you must be thinking of another company.”  But I insisted it was a Premier Tour (she was wearing a Premier Tours outfit) and she just blew me off—even though I saw an old-fashioned double-decker bus out in the lot.  What was I supposed to do?  I called the tour company and complained.

The lady on the other side of the phone was very British, efficient and helpful.  She put me on hold and I waited.  Eventually she told me that if I made my way to Buckingham Palace by 1:45, I could pick up the tour there.  It was 1:25.

I raced to Buckingham Palace, after walking three blocks the wrong way.  I saw the same bus parked at the curb, and some people I had seen at the bus station so I knew I was in the right place—but I was also annoyed that I had received bad information from the woman at the gate and had missed a good bit of the tour.  Still, once there, I happily climbed up to the top so I could see the sights a little better, even though it was drizzly.  (Of course I was wearing my “mac.”)

London did not disappoint, despite the rain.  I saw places that I’d only seen in films, but places I had always wanted to see in real life.  There was Trafalgar Square, and Piccadilly Circus, and the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben.  There was the Thames and London Bridge and the Tower Bridge and the Tower of London.  We got off our bus at the Tower of London, and by then I was soaked through because the rain had grown serious, but I did not mind.  I was in London!

The next part of the tour included a boat ride on the Thames for about 30 minutes, where we went under many of the cities bridges, including the Tower Bridge, the London Bridge, the Westminster Bridge, and the Millenium Bridge.  I enjoyed the boat ride a lot and the guide was very knowledgeable about various sights and offered suggestions of places to eat, and places to avoid because of pickpockets.  We all disembarked at the London Eye where several people were going, while a few of the rest of us waited again for the tour bus to pick us up to take us to Harrods.

Meanwhile, I kept glancing at my watch because the tour was only supposed to go to 4, and it was already 4:35, and I was worried that the cream tea at Harrods would make it difficult to get back to the room to change for the theater which I had plans for later that evening. Traffic was awful, with the rain, and had been so earlier, which is why we were running so late.  When we finally got to Harrods Tea Room, it was 5:20, and all I could think was “Curtain’s at 7:30!  Curtain’s at 7:30!”  But I knew that I had to adjust my plans, and enjoyed a beautiful afternoon tea of 2 scones (one fruit, one plain), and raspberry and cherry jam, and homemade butter (which may supposed to have been clotted cream but it had turned to butter), and tea with milk and sugar, and a glass of Prosecco.  I enjoyed every sip and bite in elegant surroundings, with heavy damask drapes and beautiful, heavy utensils and bright, shiny tea service.  The piano player played songs by Wham and Queen as I tucked into my tea.  And even though I was worried about being late to the theater, I decided to just savor my meal and not worry so much.

It was a little after 6 when I left the tea room and made my way back out to the street.  I would have loved to have looked around Harrods, and would have had the time had our tour not run so late, but I did get to pass through the jewelry department and was enchanted with all the ice.  And fortunately, there were taxis right outside.  I had to wait behind an entourage of  six beautiful Middle Eastern women, who looked as though they had bought out the store, but I caught a taxi to the Wyndham’s Theatre in the West End and we poked through traffic, finally arriving at 10 to 7.

It was Oklahoma! like I’d never seen it. The reviews called it “sexy.” The theater itself was cozy and small, and the stage was a simple set up of chairs and tables and Curly began to sing “Oh! What a Beautiful Mornin’” on his own guitar.  He sang beautifully, even if his guitar playing was only so-so,  Of course, when I had bought the tickets back in April, I thought I was going to see Arthur Darvill play Curly—I had loved him on Legends of Tomorrow, and he was the only good thing about stinking Amy Pond on Doctor Who, so I was a little disappointed that the character had been recast, but the actor who played him, Sam Palladio, was great.  And Laurey was great.  But it was a weird staging, especially with the “Dream Ballet” which included a filmed section of the dancer’s face, I suppose imagining Laurey’s life if she were to be with Jud, and  the scene in the smokehouse, pitch black, and then a filmed section of Jud’s face, as “Pore Jud is Daid” is sung.  And then at the end, when Curly kills Jud, it’s not by stabbing but by gun, and I mean the stunt blood went everywhere, all over Curly’s suit and Laurey’s wedding dress.  It was a little gratuitous.  But overall, the songs were wonderful and I really had a good time. I had a really good seat too—row J, seat 14, right in the middle (but also, on the aisle, because there’s a break in the seating).

I caught a cab home (like the earlier cab to the theater, this one was pricey), and fell asleep almost right away.  I wanted to be refreshed for my plans for the next morning—the British Museum.

I trekked back over to Victoria Station, after getting an iced latte from Café Nero, taking a different walk from the one I had done previously, and caught the 18 bus to Museum Street.  A lady got on the bus after me and asked me if this was the bus to the museum, and I said yes.  (I must look approachable, since other people in London were asking me for directions!)  When we got off the bus, she got out Google maps and we walked together to the entrance to the museum—where the queue was huge but fast moving, especially because we both already had our tickets.  When I got inside, it was overwhelming.  And I was starving, not having had anything to eat since the cream tea the afternoon before.  I went to the British Museum’s pizzeria and got a pizza with mushrooms, artichoke hearts, and onions.  The bread was very good—chewy but well-baked.  The sauce and cheese disappointed me a bit but beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

When I was done, I walked through Ancient Greece and then Ancient Egypt, which is what I really wanted to see, because I love me some mummies, but the building became so crowded I started to get claustrophobic.  I found an upper gallery with new acquisitions and gazed at a map of Venice from 1500 for a while, then I wandered around and looked at the collection and then called Mom for half an hour.  By then I had calmed down a bit, and made my way through some of the China exhibit, and then I went to the gift shop and outside into the windy, sprinkly London air.  I could have looked at more art, but I really felt oppressed by all the bodies visiting the exhibits, so I figure if I go back to London some day, I will go see different rooms.  I took the 18 bus back to the station, and went to the room for a refreshing nap.

Of course, I didn’t plan to nap as long as I did; I had intended on getting some dinner somewhere before I went to the Barbican Theatre to see A Strange Loop, but I overslept. Meanwhile, there were outages on the Tube; the Circle Line had seen some questionable behavior on the tracks (apparently, someone got down on the tracks for some reason?), and was running on a delay.  But “delay” is a polite word for “clusterfuck” because it got later and later and later, and no Circle line train ever appeared.  At 6:50, I left the Tube and went outside to find a cab, because it was clear that the train just wasn’t running, and I didn’t want to be late for curtain.  Fortunately, A Strange Loop started at 8.

£40 poorer, I arrived at the spectacular Barbican Centre.  I had seats up in one of the balconies, but ushers were trying to fill the orchestra seats, so I was given a “producer’s complimentary upgrade” to an orchestra seat.  Then I waited for the show to begin. Meanwhile they were playing terrific music on the overhead speakers, but Shazam couldn’t figure out any of the songs.  (Ugh.) I thought some of the songs might have been Liz Phair, but I wasn’t sure.  Anyway,  we were waiting and waiting and finally they announced there were technical difficulties, and the show would start late.  Like 8:30 late.  The show began with real energy and humor but in the end, it was not for me.  I found the singing wonderful, but what they were singing about was awful, hateful, depressing stuff, and the main character (who I also think was the writer?) was so degraded and humiliated as a plot device that the show was just painful to watch.  I kept waiting for intermission, because I was going to duck out and save myself, but there wasn’t any.  Also, I appeared to be the only person in the audience who hated the show—because everyone else gave it a standing O.  I wanted something light and happy and that was not was A Strange Loop was about.

When the show was over and I could make my escape, I looked for a taxi but unlike the night before, there weren’t any around.  I started walking, following the other theater-goers, feeling cold with the wind and a little sorry for myself, but remembering I had seen a Barbican Tube station, and hoping that if I went that way I could figure out how to get back to the apartment.  Fortunately, a taxi whipped by and stopped, and I was thrilled.

The driver, Johnnie, was curious about what I had seen, where I was from, and where I was going.  I told him about living in Atlanta and he butted in and said, “Pardon me, but I heard Atlanta was a shithole.”  I just laughed out loud because I did not expect such a comment.  I tried to enumerate some of Atlanta’s better qualities, but that’s hard to do when you live in a city you basically hate. (Sorry Atlantans!)  Anyway, the drive back was full of such pronouncements.  “Asshole tourists!” he cried when a bunch of drunks practically stepped out in front of him.  “Stupid maniac drivers!” he yelled when a bus dared get too close  “Get the fuck out of my way!” he yelled at a bicyclist. Then— “Ever been to San Francisco?”  “Yes,” I said.  He never stopped talking, and while I didn’t mind the “conversation,” I might have enjoyed the trip back a little more if I could just focus on the beautiful skyline, with the pinky-purple light of the London Eye at the center of it.

The next morning I headed back to Edinburgh, but not before stopping for a falafel sandwich for breakfast and visiting the Harry Potter Store at Platform 9 ¾ which was right there in King’s Cross Station.  (Somehow I’d missed it when I was there before.)  There was a queue to get in, and the store, all things considered, was pretty small,  but there was some really cool stuff there.  If I had wanted to blow a lot of money, I could have, gearing myself up in Ravenclaw regalia.  But I satisfied myself with the one thing I wanted:  a Marauder’s Map scarf, which I can’t wait to wear when it’s scarf-weather again.  And then I got on my train (sadly, not a first class coach this time), and rode back to Edinburgh, with a golden retriever named Chilla in the seat across the aisle.

10/10 would definitely go again.

More Photos

*Note:

The title of this blog post is a lyric from Paul McCartney & Wings’ song “London Town.”