On Saturday morning, I was up at 4:30 to catch the National Express into London.
I opened my curtains to see this just outside my window.
Well.
After sprinting across the the warzone of Parker's Piece (it's Cambridge's Big Weekend, well, this weekend, which means concerts and fireworks and loud people exhibiting blatant disregard for the proper disposal of hot dog wrappers), I was off to London. Again.
Now, I won't go so far as to say I like riding buses (or coaches, as the long-distance ones are called around here), as I'm sure I'll be thoroughly sick of them by the end of this trip, but I do like travelling alone in the gray of morning when nobody is awake. It makes me feel like I'm somebody important off to do Important Things.
We arrived at Victoria Coach Station at around 7:30, where I was met with pay-to-use public toilets, which, well, surprised me. Turns out this is mostly the case across London. I'd rather expected this to be the case in a place like Taiwan (where, granted, they do charge you for toilet paper in some places), not London.
Anyhow, after a fair bit of confusion, alleviated by the very tourist-friendly maps posted on nearly every cross-street, I made it to Buckingham Palace for Touristy Stop #1 of the day. It was, predictably, deserted at this hour, which suited me just fine.
The first of many statues.
From Buckingham Palace, I walked to Green Park, which was indeed very green, to take the Tube.
A brief interjection: I'd originally planned on this tour of London being a running tour, to save on transportation costs and, well, time, to be honest--I can run faster than it would take to pop down into a Tube station, wrestle my way onto a train, and pop back out to look for my destination--but the timely arrival of my Oyster card persuaded the lusk in me to see London by Tube instead. It was actually a good thing I'd decided not to run London because first, I didn't realize how many people smoked around here (even walking around made my throat burn); second, there are an absolutely ridiculous number of vehicles on the road at any given time going in all sorts of weird directions--it's as if 90-degree street corners do not exist around here; and third, tour groups on the sidewalk = instant pedestrian traffic jam. No running.
And so I took the tube from Green Park to, um, er...
Baker Street.
I mean, come on.
This is London we're talking about. London, that "great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained." I was raised on a literary diet consisting of Arthur Conan Doyle and J.R.R. Tolkein. When I was eleven or twelve, my father gave me a hardback copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, which was actually a collection of the original The Strand magazine articles, complete with Sidney Paget's original illustrations, and I about shot through the roof.
So.
Baker Street.
And then I hopped back onto the Tube to Euston Square to see fake Baker Street, where, apparently, Giuseppe Freaking Mazzini used to live in between planning Italian revolutions.
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| Clearly not my photography skills. |
Somehow, aided once again by central London's spectacularly helpful street maps (and my GPS watch), I made it to St. Paul's Cathedral, where I wandered through the gardens, looked at statues and stuff, and made John Donne's acquaintance.
I be much proud.
If I knew anything at all about architecture, I'm sure I'd be more impressed. In actual fact, all I could think about was how much the cathedral resembled the Capitol building, which was, in my opinion, much shinier. A budding historian is what I am.
Here I suppose you could say was the beginning of The Grand, Entirely Unintentional Walking Tour of London, which was apparently eight-and-a-half miles long. Whoops.
...And I arrived at the (New) Globe Theatre.
I joined a tour (the only thing I paid for today) and almost died of happiness.
I mean, look at that.
I know the original theater burned down centuries ago (but not as long ago as the founding of Cambridge, oh no no no), but sitting in what was, to archaeologists' and historians' best knowledge, a nearly-exact replica was fantastic.
As actual plays are still performed at the Globe, the stage was set for The Taming of the Shrew, which was (predictably and unfortunately) sold out.
The gift shop divided things up by play, which I found amusing.
There was also a typewriter (not for sale) scanning Twitter in real time for words to type out the entirety of King John.
Fantastic.
I then took a stroll (hah) down the south bank of the Thames as the skies had cleared a bit.
Realizing I'd seen nearly everything I'd wanted to see with it still being before noon, I wandered into Tate Modern, which was just next door.
I appreciate that the majority of museums around here have free admission, but I don't much appreciate modern art. I poked around for about fifteen, twenty minutes, then made a beeline for the exit (and reality).
I crossed the Thames again, this time via the Waterloo Bridge, which, as I am an unfortunate human being, led me to think not of a certain French emperor, but of that one ABBA song.
I passed the Somerset House without knowing what it was really about, but the name rang a very distant bell in my cavernously empty mind, so I took a picture of it and walked on, thinking it looked rather large for a house, but then again, this was London, and nothing came in the correct proportions.
By the time I made it to Trafalgar Square, the place was crawling with tourists and citizens alike--turns out it was hosting an Eid Festival. With plenty of time on my hands, I wandered around, hands in pockets, smelling spices, scowling at schoolchildren.
And then, of course, I wandered into the National Gallery (which was blissfully free).
I am such a sucker for 18th- to 20th-century art because this is what I studied when I was a wee babe in Saturday morning art class, clutching oil pastels and sexy pencils.
I almost lost it when I entered a room dedicated almost entirely to Van Gogh's work for an entirely different (and rather more embarrassing) reason.
Auuuuughhh.
All I could do was stand there, take a picture of a picture, stand there some more, and stare.
Yes, I know that last one's not Van Gogh, but I did paint it when I was younger. It was so strange to see the real thing just hanging casually on the wall for all to see.
Anyhow, another toilet interlude.
The National Gallery really puts the towel in hand towel.
From there, it was a bit of a walk down Whitehall past all the Anti-Brexit protesters outside No. 10 to Westminster Abbey.
And then on again past Buckingham Palace...
Along The Serpentine in Hyde Park...
And into Kensington Gardens.
By this time, I had begun to question my sanity. Who did I think I was, Forrest Gump? Granted, I'd definitely run much longer and faster before, but I had approached those excursions with a sense of purpose. Here I was, trekking around London in jeans and shoes that were most certainly not made for walking.
I then sat down on a bench and stared around at all the greenery. I could hardly hear the cars going by outside the park; the predominant sounds were those of quiet conversations and the occasional ping of a bicycle bell. I wouldn't have seen this from the Tube. Heck, I'd have barreled straight around all the parks and gardens in less than ten minutes.
So I sat some more, and when I felt reasonably sure I wouldn't tip over if I stood up, I continued on.
And holy crap, there was the Royal Albert Hall, the venue of my dreams.
And, of course, Albert himself (kind of).
Eventually, I made it to Kensington Palace.
No tourists were around. Unsurprising. And wonderful.
When I finally arrived at the Marble Arch station, all I wanted to do was sit down, but everywhere was swarming with everyone swarming to go see Take That, who (I just learned) were playing in Hyde Park right at that moment. What the heck, man. I wandered right past one of the biggest summer events in London without even knowing it.
I took the Tube back to Victoria Station, hopping lines twice because, for some reason, there were no trains running on the Circle line.
It was a bit strange, feeling welcomed by my return to Cambridge.
Even with the Big Weekend.
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