As an impromptu pre-vacation vacation, I spent this past Monday and Tuesday in London, soaking in the city and doing a bit of shopping. Various thoughts:
I took the train from London to Oxford, rather than the usual WiFi-enabled Oxford Tube. It was my first journey of any significant distance by train (SEPTA Regional Rail service within Philadelphia definitely doesn’t count, though I’ve had SEPTA trips that have been longer, in terms of time spent on board), and I’ve realized that I rather like the experience of being on a train. Despite sitting in front of a group of three loud Americans (a dad and his sons, I think) who would see smokestacks in the distance and exclaim, so the entire car could hear them, “Look! A nu-cu-lar plant!” I found it on the whole a great deal less objectionable than flying or taking a bus. Maybe Amtrak was right in their latest Acela commercial.
Monday was largely spent walking around London, feeling lost and very alone. I had to charge my phone three times over the course of the afternoon, because I spent most of the day talking internationally, out of a desperate attempt to retain a connection to something familiar. Taking on London solo, it turns out, isn’t for me.
There’s something misleadingly reassuring about rubbing your wallet on an Oyster terminal and seeing the gates fly open — as if, simply by possessing an RFID tag, you become a local. Traveling between Underground stations, ultimately, was where I felt the most at peace for the whole trip.
I saw the opera Katya Kabanova (by Janacek) with Chris on Monday evening, and afterwards had a few drinks at a pub next to the infamous G-A-Y Bar. The pub itself was lovely — I’m perpetually amazed by the ability of British drinking establishments to play things like Fuck Buttons or Four Tet and have it be totally normal — but the location reignited my internal debate over gay bars/clubs. I’ve never been to one, in Philadelphia or elsewhere, and I can’t decide if I actually want to. I don’t know what I’m more worried about: that it’ll be decrepit and everything I’m afraid of, or that I’ll actually enjoy it.
Tuesday morning, en route to the bus to return Chris to Oxford, we passed a memorial for animals in war. In the afternoon, I intended to visit two other memorials, both for Princess Diana: one in Hyde Park, where water flows in improbable directions; and one in Harrods, where disposable income flows in entirely probable directions. I made it to neither, but instead found my way to the Marc by Marc Jacobs in Mayfair, where I proceeded to buy a bunch of shirts in the wrong size that will have to be exchanged when I’m back in London on Sunday.
By the second day, London started feeling a little more familiar, at least insofar as I’d gotten a few hours of sleep, had a couple of cups of coffee, and was somewhat better hydrated.
Just around the corner from what I discovered was the Mozambican embassy, I met up with a friend for lunch at the Indian YMCA, which I didn’t realize was even a possibility. Some mediocre Indian food and a few hours later, I ran into yet another Swarthmore student at a University of London School of Oriental and African Studies common room, once more confirming that it’s actually impossible to go anywhere without encountering, unplanned, someone who is or recently was a student at Swarthmore.
Despite buying a £4 advance ticket for 8.50pm, I tried to catch an earlier train back to Oxford out of sheer exhaustion and an overwhelming desire for familiar surroundings. When a last-minute ticket turned out to cost just shy of £20, I sat down at a conveyor belt, ate sushi, and finally surrendered any reluctance I may have once had to talk on the phone while eating in public. Despite a pedestrian being run over by a First Great Western train along the route I was traveling, I made it home on time and mostly unharmed.
So went my first solo trip to London.