London: Crowds

25 November 2012

London is a big city.  It doesn't feel big the way New York feels big.  It doesn't tower overhead and block out the sun.  London spreads.  London is loud.  Like New York, London always has something going on somewhere.  I've been to London enough times now that I've lost count.  Jack and I have a list of places and people that we always visit when we're here:  the Design Museum, the Tate Modern, the British Museum; the shops in Covent Garden; Brycchan, Tiffany, Mazz.

Our first day was for loading up on coffee and CDs in Covent Garden.  We'd done some research to find a few small coffee roasters who also sold beans.  One of these places, called Notes, was a roaster, brewer, and purveyor of wine and jazz.  I walked out with a caffeine buzz and two small bags of beans.  Jack left with 50 CDs -- 5 boxed sets for about $18 each  (those are iTunes prices).

The next roaster offered me a taste of what I was buying before I took my money out.  I left with 500 grams of high-test and a kilogram of decaf.  "Packing just got interesting," I texted Dale.

We met Brycchan for dinner.  He's a successful English Literature professor in the UK has decided to get himself a biology degree on the side.  My world-weariness of the scientific universe is no match for his enthusiasm.  Now that I'm happy at work (two years and counting, unprecedented), his enthusiasm isn't irking me the way it used to.

On Thanksgiving day (it's just called Thursday over here) we visited the Design Museum and the Tate Modern, both of which were a little disappointing. While I'm better at museums than I used to be (one hour and I'd be ready to leave), I find myself getting annoyed at modern art labels.  I mean, really, if the curator has to describe in florid detail what the piece is claiming to represent, then the artist hasn't done a good job.  Our all-time favorite is a label we saw a handful of years ago on a bronze hot dog:  "This piece represents nuclear war."  Right.  Next?  This time around, Jack and I noticed a distinct positive correlation between the obvious lack of artistic merit and the floridity of the label.

We had dinner with Adam and Louise, during which I introduced Louise to the World of Laboratory Science though an old video on my old iPhone (pressed back into service with a shiny, new, UK phone number) that I'd done for Dale to show her what where I work looks like.  On our long bus ride home, one of my colleagues and his wife texted me.  We got into a long conversation about annoying contemporary art. That she, who has a degree in art history and museums, agreed with me, was a comfort.

Saturday's plans were less ambitious.  We figured we'd stay local and visit a few book shops, maybe the Natural History museum.

Those of you who've spent any time around me have heard me say "There are too many people on this planet."  Nowhere is this more obvious than on a rainy, late-November day in London when one finds that two Tube lines aren't running, climbs aboard a bus that turns off its route unannounced because a demonstration has closed a main road, steps out far from one's destination, and figures one might as well see Harrods  (no apostrophe, the place is that old) while one is in the neighborhood.

Penn Station at rush hour has nothing on this place.  Jack figured he might as well buy his mother some tea while we were here.  I inserted myself into the crush of the chocolate section while Jack waited in the cashier's line.  I'm glad that my suitcase is loaded with Spanish chocolate; I didn't feel tempted (well, maybe a little) to buy anything from Harrods.  Some people love the crowded rush of Christmas shopping.  Jack and I were looking for the exit.

We decided to try to walk back to the hotel, in the rain.  After half a mile of what would have been a 3-mile walk, we got into a taxi that got us near, but not to, the hotel.  The driver, who provided the most entertainment we'd had all day, finally gave up and let us out in the middle of a traffic jam.  We were just a few minutes from the hotel at that point, and we walked faster than the speed of traffic all the way to the front door.

The day ended well, though.  In the evening we met with Mazz and Graham for dinner at a posh restaurant.  We got home smoothly, too.

So.  Pictures.

I haven't taken many.  Those that I have taken, though, are for those of you who really only read this blog because you want to read about bikes and biking.  These pictures are for you.

Painted bicycles border an outdoor cafe:

This one was here just because:

This is not a bike shop.  It is the commuter parking area outside of the Euston train station:

Today is our last day of vacation.  We'll wander a museum or two, then meet with Tiffany for dinner.  I'm going to sign off now.  I have to make all the coffee, chocolate, and books fit into my suitcase.

See y'all on the road next weekend.