Unlikely Words

I’m running out of unique ways to say, “we got off to a later start than planned.” The day’s itinerary was to tour the Tower of London, take a boat ride up to Greenwich, and end up with a night out at the theatre. It didn’t quite work out that way.

Once again, we didn’t get out of the apartment until 10:30 or so, and then we spent way too much time trying to find someplace to eat breakfast. This was really a spectacular failure: we walked to two or three places in Covent Garden, couldn’t find precisely what we were looking for, and ended up in – how it pains me to admit it! – Starbucks. (Starbucks in England doesn’t have iced coffee. When I asked for it, the woman looked at me like I was insane, and offered an iced latte instead.)

When we finally got to the Tower, it was noon. We filed through the entrance arch in the middle of an immense group of people, and milled around waiting for one of the Yeoman Warders (Beefeaters) to show up to start a guided tour. I should mention how excited I was to be at the Tower of London. It really is an amazing structure; this huge walled and turreted fortress in the middle of a modern city. I’d read Neal Stephenson’s The System of the World and a biography of Samuel Pepys in the past year, so it was kind of thrilling to actually be walking past Traitor’s Gate and the Bloody Tower.

The Warder led a lively tour, and when it was over we went to walk through the White Tower and to see the Crown Jewels. The jewels were really something. I mean, on the one hand, it’s just some really tacky crowns; on the other hand, it’s the Crown Jewels of England. It turns out I am really fascinated by the trappings of monarchy. (That sentence right there just ruined any political aspirations I might have.) I think I could have spent an hour just looking at the coat of arms of each of the Kings and Queens of England since William the Conqueror. I’m going to end up as one of those people who know what “three lions, gules” means.

The White Tower itself was somewhat underwhelming, I’m sad to say. Just the experience of walking through a castle built in 1080 was amazing, but today it’s little more than a museum of armaments and weaponry. My Dungeons and Dragons days are far enough behind me that I’m not that interested in the difference between a glaive and a halberd, and I’m not much moved by a wall of pistols. We also decided that, while there was something strangely appropriate about the tower’s dungeon having been turned into its gift shop, we didn’t need to buy anything.

By the time we finished seeing everything we cared to see, it was 3:00, and I was becoming desperately in need of food. Casting aside all thoughts of exploring and finding something interesting or affordable, we bought sandwiches at the café attached to the Tower ticket booth. Boring and overpriced! It’s a tourist two-fer.

At this point, any thought of going to Greenwich was shot. We decided to focus our energy on finding a play to see in the evening. Why not take in Antony and Cleopatra at Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre? We’d walk from the Tower of London to the much-lauded Millennium Bridge, buy tickets, and maybe kill some time at the Tate Modern next door.

The walk from the Tower to the Tate was not a complete success. Part of this fault lay with us: while we quite masterfully read the map to determine the route we should take – “turn left” – we didn’t look carefully enough at the scale. This was a long-ass walk. (Map My Run says it’s only 2km, but I don’t believe it.) The Millennium Bridge never seemed to get any closer, no matter how far we walked. Many were the times along the way that we nearly gave up and simply collapsed on the street, hoping to beg a passer-by for water, help, food, anything.

The rest of the fault can be laid squarely at the feet of London: the route we walked was almost completely along the very nicely signed “Thames Walk.” The problem is that, despite the inviting nature of the signs that indicate the route one might take to follow the Thames Walk, only a very small percentage of the walk is even remotely scenic or attractive. Oh, sure, it goes under London Bridge, and, yes, there are a number of restaurants where London business people must take lunch, but a significant portion of the route goes through areas that are not usually designated as tourist destinations, and at one point the River Walk sign pointed down a long unlit underpass which was used as a parking lot for the adjacent office buildings. Not so much “Let’s Go London” as “Let’s Get Out Of Here London.” We’re told the river path along the south bank of the Thames is much nicer; we might suggest that London not put the signs up on the north bank until they’ve thought things out a bit more.

At long last, however, St. Paul’s hove into view (where else but England can I use the word “hove”?) and there was the Millennium Bridge. It is, indeed, a lovely footbridge across the Thames, and Londoners are justly proud of it. On the other side is the imposing Tate Modern building and, just next door, the Globe.

The Globe, as it happened, was sold out. Even the £5 “groundling” tickets were no longer available. Nearly defeated, we collapsed onto a bench and flipped through Time Out. We were in no mood for a drama, and I didn’t have the strength to sit through a musical, so we settled on a lesser-known farce by Michael Frayn (whom we love) called Donkeys Years. One mobile phone call later (at international roaming rates), we had our tickets.

Having walked all that way, we thought we might as well give the Tate Modern museum a shot. Rachel and I, in our best mood, are not the ideal visitors for the Tate Modern. We don’t have much knowledge of art in general, and even when we haven’t been schlepping across London for hours we don’t have much of an appreciation for the more outré forms of modern art. It wasn’t a crushing shock, therefore, that we didn’t love the museum. The building itself is massive – it’s impressive for, if nothing else, the audacity of putting a modern art museum in a former power plant that must cost a fortune to heat in the winter (as it turns out, they don’t) – but we found the galleries themselves to be somewhat unattractive. While I do appreciate some modern painting and sculpture (there were a few Magrittes I liked), I just wasn’t moved in the same way I was at the National Gallery. After looking through a few rooms, Rachel decided to collapse into what we think was a chair (there’s an outside chance it was a piece of sculpture) while I checked out a few more galleries. I came back with this report: “I saw a dark room with four big dark red squares, a video of people mud-wrestling in bikinis, a painting of a man urinating, and a CD of fart sounds. I’m ready to go.”

So, back across the bridge, dragging our aching feet around St. Paul’s to the Tube. By the time we got back to the apartment, we were exhausted and somewhat worried about dinner; the play was at 7:30, and since we’d eaten lunch so late, we probably weren’t going to want to have a normal-sized dinner beforehand. I knew I wasn’t going to last until after. Gordon and Karen saved the day by inviting us out to drinks at one of their local pubs, where Rachel and I split a small salad and some hummus and pita. Just the light snack we needed. When traveling in a strange city, having friends willing to make food decisions for you is highly recommended. (If they can provide stimulating conversation as well, all the better.)

From there, it was back onto the Tube to Picadilly Circus. When we got out we realized that we’d forgotten to look up where, precisely, the theatre was. I consulted the map in my head, pointed down a street, and set off confidently in exactly the wrong direction, until Rachel asked a souvenir salesman where Haymarket Street was. We turned around and ran and made it to the theatre with five minutes to spare.

The play itself was amusing, but there’s a reason it’s not one of Frayn’s better known plays. (We love Noises Off and Copenhagen; this play seemed like it might have been practice for the former.) One odd thing about the theatre in England is that they serve ice cream at the interval (as they call intermission), and everyone buys it. Young and old alike, eating our little ice creams with a wooden stick. Weird.

After the play we found that the Picadilly Circus underground station was inexplicably closed, so we walked to Leicester Square (which was hopping) to catch the Tube home. I think I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.