I can never understand why Londoners fail to see that they live in the most wonderful city in the world. It is, if you ask me, far more beautiful than Paris and more lively than anywhere but New York – and even New York can’t touch it in a lot of important ways. It has more history, finer parks, and lively and more varied press, better theatres, more numerous orchestras and museums, leafier squares, safer streets, and more courteous inhabitants than any other large city in the world.
I’m sitting here with remnants of the trip – a postcard from the Tower, a handful of coins, a bar towel with the Underground train logo – and it seems like it shouldn’t be over already, even though I’ve been back at work for three days, had time to clean my apartment, and already returned to thinking of queues as lines and toilets as restrooms. London was my first venture into another country that hasn’t involved driving south for two hours on the I-5 in Southern California. I met a friend there with whom I’ve never traveled and over the course of three days we saw places I never thought I’d visit, went to a party at Shakespeare’s Globe theatre, and got a tour of London by a really cool young man. From the beginning. In imagining all the places I’d like to travel, the United Kingdom has always been at the top of my list. Some of is that the language always made it seem a comfortable place to start (although the phrase ‘two countries separated by a common language' does have merit), but it’s also always seemed familar in a comforting way. Mom's geneology research indicates that lots of our ancestors are from Great Britain, but more than that, it's always felt to me like the place we came from, even if it's not for a millions of Americans. And then, I’ve always loved things that I know (or imagine) to be British - afternoon tea with scones and clotted cream, horsebacks rides through green countryside dotted with tiny thatched cottages, castles two and three times as old as the United States, buttery pastries with savory fillings, scones and clotted cream, and scones and clotted cream. I had an opportunity to travel with my friend Susan right after grad school, but everything seemed too far away from home that year, and with regret, I turned her down. Since, I’ve brought it up to friends, but an overseas trip is a lot to take on in terms of time and money, and it’s hard to find someone you know you could travel with who has both at the same time as you. But then Book Aid International, the charity The Leaky Cauldron supports, sent an invitation to attend their 50th anniversary party, and Meg called to say that she planned to go. And then Dad died, and I needed to get away. So I booked a ticket.
Friday/SaturdayThe flight over left at 6:30 pm and was long – seven hours – made longer by the annoying British boys sitting in front of me, who were just returning from a trip to the U.S. My seatmates were much more agreeable. The woman to my left had just made her first visit to the U.S.; the man on my right has lived the last 25 years in the States. She thought the D.C. area was lovely, and especially liked McClean. He said he loved America and that his favorite place to live had been La Jolla, and that although he liked living in D.C., he didn't find the people there much fun. Neither liked our president; both thought it a shame that the value of the dollar has dropped so much in England. He was flying over with his wife (who was on another flight) to baby-sit his grandson while his daughter and son-in-law spent three weeks in Aspen. I asked if he’d ever move back to London, and he looked a little startled. “Oh, yes,” he said. “It’s home.” We landed at Heathrow at 6:30 am, five hours ahead of Virginia. It’s a huge airport, and the long walk from the gate through customs to the lounge helped to wake me up, particularly the duty-free shop, which is designed to be unavoidable and which is full of things than practically scream at you to buy them and take them home. After a trip to the toilet (or loo, not restroom, not bathroom), I found an ATM. Whether I'd actually be able to get money had been a source of stress for me. I'd planned to take a lot of cash and just swap it out at the nearest bank, but several people told me no, no, don't be silly, use an ATM - don't take cash, don't take traveler's checks. The thing is that I never use my check card, as my credit union is on my walk home from work, and although it's a Visa, it doesn't have that little 'Plus' symbol on the back, and from what I'd read online, that was pretty much a guarantee the machine would spit back my card and tell me to have a nice day. It didn't help that the teller at my credit union had told me that she wouldn't use my ATM card overseas, and that I'd better buy up traveler's checks or I'd be sorry. But the card worked fine, and the bank there didn’t even charge a fee, which means I got about as good of an exchange rate as was possible. I got out £80, which cost me about $145 (it's predicted to get even more expensive by the end of the year), then found a restaurant and ordered an omelet and hash browns with coffee from a boy with a lovely Scottish accent, and sat down to admire my new money. It’s very pretty. I like the £1 coin the best, which Meg and I decided over lunch later that day would henchforth be referred to as 'pirate money'. Breakfast cost in pounds about what it would have cost here in dollars, so we also decided that we’d have to pretend $1 = £1 or drive ourselves mad with outrage. Meg arrived about three hours later, asked where the nearest vendor was, beelined, ordered two bottles of water, and downed them in about 30 seconds each. After she hit the loo, we went off to find the Underground, or the Tube. There was a line at an automated machine to get tickets, but before we reached it a conductor asked where we wanted, told us what we wanted to buy ("Oh, no, you want a day pass, not a one way"), took our money, and handed us our tickets. We took the train to Kensington, Gloucester stop, and were happy to find our hotel was only a few minutes walk away. We had reservations at the Park International, which had the lowest price for the best reviews (i.e. there were cheaper hotels, but former guests warned you’d wake up with rats sleeping next to you on your pillow). It's an older but nice hotel. We were several hours before check-in, but they offered to keep our bags for us while we roamed around. Kensington is really beautiful. It’s a mix of old-fashioned houses that don’t seem pretentious or overwhelmingly expensive (but are, for all I know) and small quirky businesses and cozy cafes. We walked several blocks, and oohed and aahed, and found an OddBins (Lacroix, sweetie, Lacroix), then stopped in a pub for an irish coffee and British-y foods like fish and chips and shepherds pie. Meg put a letter into a fire hydrant, and then we headed back to get in our room where I got my first real look at how non-fresh and alert one looks after a redeye, stopping first at a cybercafe to check email (£1 for 20 minutes. £1. £. I like the £ sign. £ and £ and £).
Last fall, Meg and Melissa had the opportunity to interview Jamie Waylett, who plays Draco Malfoy’s sidekick Vincent Crabbe in the Harry Potter movies, as well as his mom, Theresa, and his manager, John. When Jamie and Theresa flew to New York in early February for a few days of shopping (where they liberated many pairs of trainers (sneakers) and handbags), they invited Meg and Melissa to meet up for dinner, and told Meg to call when she came to London. So we cleaned up a bit and rang John, who gave us directions to the Tube stop nearest his home, where he and Theresa were waiting to pick us up. Theresa is warm and friendly with wonderful, crazy-curly hair. John, who was every bit as friendly and welcoming as Theresa, asked us about our trip so far and how Melissa was. They're friendliness aside, I felt somewhat without anything intelligent to say ("Gosh, I like scones. Rain much here?"), something that faded by the end of the evening. John ushered us into his car for the trip to his house. For those of you who grew up with cars that point in the opposite direction as to what they do in England, I can tell you that being on the road there is an interesting experience - your brain knows very well that it's different, but your reflexes continue to insist you're about to slam head-on into another car and die in a firey explosive blaze (but let me note here how much I appreciate the British going to the trouble to pain 'LOOK LEFT'! 'LOOK RIGHT'! on the pavement at each intersection, something that saved our lives on several occasions. And don't take anything in this paragraph as commentary on John's driving, which I'm sure, had I been able to pry my eyes open, was exemplary). John lives in a great old row house in northwest London. He tucked his car into a spot along the curb and invited us up to have a cup of coffee, where we met Jamie's older brother, Robert, and were we chatted, mostly about the books, the movies, and what it's like to mother and manage a young actor. Jamie came in shortly with John’s son, who's also a John. Jamie is a lot taller than I would have realized - Meg is six foot (sometimes taller, depending on her choice of footwear), and while Jamie isn't quite there, I expect he will be soon. Jamie is just as friendly as his mom. He asked Meg about her flight over, and about New York (which, according to him, is the best city on Earth), and agreed with Theresa's suggestion that he and his grandfather give us a walking tour before meeting up later for dinner. We walked the few blocks to the bus stop. Jamie told us about where he'd grown up, not far from where John and his family live. He said that his neighborhood is getting rougher - a friend of his was recently mugged, which Jamie witnessed - but it's home, and he's reluctant to leave. Jamie's grandad spoke a little of what it was like to have meet the President when Jamie was invited to the White House. It clearly considered it a great honor, and after the political discussion on the plane ride over, as well as my own frustrations with some of the policies of our current administration, it was sort of nice to hear. A red double-decker pulled up, and we climbed aboard. On the ride, we quizzed Jamie about filming - what it's like, how he likes it - and found out that while he's having a lot of fun and would certainly enjoy doing more of it, he isn't banking on acting as a future profession. As someone who has two college degrees and has been in the work force just over six years yet still spends a fair amount of time pondering what I want to do when I grow up, I was impressed with his thoughts on the matter. Regardless of what he does after Harry Potter, you get the feeling he'll be a success.
We roamed through So Ho and Chinatown in what Jamie announced was the 'Crabbe Tour of London', something Jamie suggested might become the next TLC fundraiser (he was joking, but to be honest, it was a great tour, and well worth a fee - Melissa, take note). Jamie snapped a few photos of us (I'm usually the group photographer, which means I never have any photos with me in them), and then we stopped for hot chocolate and coffee. We were in the front of the line, and Jamie huffed a bit when he realized we'd already paid for our drinks. "It's an all expenses paid tour!" he protested. "You aren't supposed to pay!", and then, steaming drinks in hand, we walked over to see Leicester Square (call it 'Lester'), which is where the of the Harry Potter movies premiered. Both his and his grandad's eyes got wide as they told us what that had been like - the red carpet, the photographs, people screaming Jamie's name. The conversation reminded me that Jamie is in one of the highest grossing film series of all time - which sounds like a pretty stupid thing to forget, unless you've met Jamie, who at fifteen is more down-to-earth than some people I know two or three times his age. I indulged in a moment of two of imagining myself on the red carpet, and then we left to meet up with the rest of the party.
We had arranged to rendezvous at the Trocadero, which is sort of like an evening’s entertainment in one building - food, dancing, bars, games, shops, etc. It was huge and jammed with people. We found the group and told Theresa that her son might have a future running tours through London, then contemplated food. Theresa suggested Chinatown for dinner, and we tromped a few blocks to a restaurant she recommended. Being Saturday night, there was a queue (note clever use of British term); Meg and I were famished after the long day and wondered how long it might take before we could impress everyone with just how un-bird-like our appetites are, but when it came time to give our name to the hostess, she looked at Jamie, assured us that we’d be seated immediately, and dashed off to the back of the resturant. Theresa turned and grinned at us, palms up in the air. This is the way they seem to handle everything related to Jamie’s success – not an air of - ‘isn’t this weird, but sort of delightful at the same time? Can you believe it?’ You read about kids that get a little fame and go insane with it, but you know immediately from talking with Jamie and his family that won’t happen with him – acting is great fun and has wonderful perks, but he’s planning for his future by saving money and studying auto repair, thanks much. We sat down to an incredible dinner and a great conversation, which at one point turned to the differences between our countries. Theresa said she thought that New Yorkers were far nicer than Londoners, and that the shop help in New York could teach the shop help in London a thing or two. Meg and I gaped. Now, Meg is a New Yorker, and I've been a frequent visitor to that city over the last six years - I'm there enough that tourists stop to ask me directions, and I can usually give them to them. I think it's ridiculous when people talk about how rude New Yorkers are - I've found New Yorkers to be no much different than people anywhere else in the U.S., although I do recommend that you not stand dead still on the sidewalk of 42nd and 5th and stare open-mouthed up at skyscrapers during rush hour, because anyone anywhere will get snarky on their commute home from work. But to hear someone say emphatically that New Yorkers are more polite than Londoners was a surprise, as everyone that we'd met in London had been exceptionally kind - we experienced only one sort-of rude person during the entire trip, and that was in line at a food stand during lunch hour, when we were being maybe a little more choosey than was necessary, so I can accept that. But every other Londoner we encountered, and I mean from taxi drivers to people out for a stroll, was delightful. Meg and I spent the rest of the trip remarking "There goes another one of those rude Londoners!" each time someone held the door for us, spoke kindly to us, etc, and that was a lot of times. Maybe it's that the British find our accents as charming as we find theirs, or that we wonder if we're somehow related twelve generations back and had better be polite in the event that our mums find out. Whatever it is, I found it to be nice. We finished dinner, and then because we’d been up something like 30 hours by that point, they took us to Picadilly Circus station stop, we said goodbye, and returned to our hotel, where we crashed, and then complained bitterly about the alarm the next morning.
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