When A Man is Tired of London....

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….He is tired of life. So said my longtime idol Samuel Johnson, and as usual, he couldn’t be more right. I spent a wonderful four days in London with Laura Hoyer-Booth and Co. (the Co. being her four roommates: Megan, Amanda, and fellow Furman graduates Simms and Fran), who were nice enough to let me occupy their couch in spite of my frequent coughing and sneezing. I caught my flight from Pau without any problems and arrived at Stansted airport, where I took a coach into the city. I’m ashamed to say it took me a good 30 minutes to realize everyone was driving on the other side of the road. I was also surprised by how culture shocked and out of my element I felt. I’d just assumed that in a country where everyone was speaking my native language, I’d feel pretty at ease. I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve been living in France that I felt like I’d landed on Planet Tea Cozy, or if all Americans have a similar sensation. It’s a little weird to be speaking with people who speak your language and at the same time don’t, and because it IS your mother tongue you have a harder time admitting when you didn’t catch something.

Anyways, the coach rolled through the picturesque and verdant English Countryside right down Oxford Street to the Marble Arch, where I got off the bus as I looked out on Hyde Park bathed in a wash of sunset. Quite a fortuitous start to a vacation, I’d say. I walked around the corner using Laura’s “KFC” landmark, and found her building, and met her roommate Megan who let me in. Once Laura got back from work, we hugged and squealed and screamed for the obligatory 5 minutes, and I gave her some chocolate I’d brought her from Pau. A local artisan makes it, and it has Espelette’s pepper, the spicy red Basque pepper, added to it. After catching up for a bit, Laura took me out for a quick look around. We fought our way down the massive crowds of shoppers on Oxford Street, the world’s longest shopping district (according to the oral report of one of my 4emes), and past the men pushing the daily newspapers. We got to Leister Square and then veered off through Chinatown, then walked to Trafalgar Square (now mostly void of pigeons), until we could see Big Ben and Westminster Abbey and the Thames. Then we cut up to the Strand, and back through Covenant Garden. I realize now that it was quite a lot of walking for our first night, but we were so busy gabbing I didn’t even notice.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, further dispelling my prejudiced opinion of England. My agenda could not have been clearer. I was headed to Westminster Abbey to see Dr. Johnson’s grave, and then to Fleet Street to tour his house, and everything else was secondary. For those of you not aware of my Samuel Johnson obsession, I would first ask if you’ve actually met me or if you’ve been conversing with my evil twin all these years (SHE likes that cow Jane Austen). If the name of this extraordinary man really means nothing to you, however, I consider it my duty and an honor to help you fill in the blanks. Samuel Johnson was born to Michael and Sarah Johnson in 1709. He was described as being a “brave boy”, and he grew to the then unheard of height of six feet. He was put out to a wet nurse shortly after birth, where he contracted Scrofula, which left him all but blind in one eye and caused him to be plagued with twitches throughout his life. A less robust child probably would have died. However, his physical difficulties couldn’t stunt his intellectual capacities. Dr. Johnson is the second most quoted English writer after Shakespeare. In 1755 he published the first English dictionary, working mostly alone with the help of a few clerks. When the dictionary was originally commissioned, Johnson assured the publishers that it could be done in three years. They asked him how that was possible when the 40 members of the French academy had taken 40 years to produce a comparable work in France. Johnson said it was obvious…as 3 were to 16,000, so was the value of an Englishman to a Frenchman. Really though, Johnson got along ok with the French most of the time. It was the Scots he didn’t care for, and in his dictionary he defined “Oats” as “a grain which, in England, is given to horses, but which in Scotland sustains the people.”

The irony is that Johnson’s biographer, the tenacious and enthusiastic James Boswell (who you already met in my Corsica entry), was a Scotsman. He met Johnson outside a bookstore in Covenant Garden and immediately took it upon himself to begin recording the man’s conversation verbatim. Imagine how irritating it might have been for the great hulking Johnson to have little James Boswell running around after him with pen and quill crying “Say it again, Sam!” Still, Johnson was apparently fond of him and nicknamed him “Bozzy”. Johnson’s other friends included literary lights like Oliver Goldsmith, painters like Joshua Reynolds, and preachers like John Wesley. Johnson was married to his dear “Tettie” who was 20 years his senior, and whom he sincerely loved. A man of great charity, he gave lodging to the blind poet Anne Williams, a friend of his late wife, and he left the bulk of his Estate to his black Jamaican servant, Frank.

Right, so believe it or not, that’s the short version of my “Johnson is a god among men” rant. I could write about many more anecdotes and works, but you’d stop readying if you haven’t already, so I’ll try to show a bit of restraint. So where was I? Oh yeah, Westminster Abbey. I made my way to the Abbey after a quick detour by Buckingham Palace. Here was the first odd thing I learned about Britain. In France, you pay for museums but all the churches are free. In England, it’s apparently the opposite. So I forked over my precious pounds and walked into that famous burial ground of kings, statesmen, and poets. I walked through the crypts of the Tudor monarchs, and stepped in to admire Henry VII’s chapel to the Virgin Mary before I wound my way around to Poet’s Corner, where the greatest of Britain’s literary minds are buried. I wandered past T.S. Elliott, Robert Browning, and John Dryden before I found Samuel Johnson. I almost laughed out loud when I saw who was beside him. David Garrick was one of the greatest English actors of the 18th century, and a former student of Johnson’s. To put it mildly, they had a complicated relationship. The two came to London at the same time to seek their fortunes, sharing a single horse. Garrick quickly rose to fame as an actor, while Johnson was forced to work as a hack writer to pay the bills. Garrick was an excellent mimic and would often mock his former schoolmaster’s speech and mannerisms. Johnson had his fair share of quips about Garrick as well, but he would permit no other man to speak ill of him, and here they were side by side. I walked around entranced for awhile, paying my respects to these astounding literary figures, then continued to tour the abbey, including the museum which showcases the effigies of many of the monarchs buried in the crypts. After Westminster, I made my way towards Fleet Street, looking for Johnson’s House in Gough Square. Well, I walked up and down, checking my map, looking for the left turn that I was supposedly to make off of the main road. Only I didn’t see any streets. Then, sadly, I noticed a narrow passage between a Starbucks and a McDonald’s that, sure enough, led me back to Gogh square and my favorite part of my entire stay in London.

When I opened the door and walked into #6, Gough Square, it was all I could do not to jump up and down squealing like a 5 year old in the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese. I think I may have worried the woman at the desk a bit. She asked me if I’d like to tour the house, and I responded with “I can’t believe it, I’M ACTUALLY HERE.” I guess if you work at Dr. Johnson’s house, though, you get used to dealing with crazy English majors. So I spent over 2 hours working my way through the not so large dwelling, reading every scrap of paper I could find and taking plenty of non-flash pictures. I saw Anne Williams’s room, the parlor and study rooms, and best of all, the workshop where Johnson compiled his dictionary over the course of 9 years (ok, so maybe he was a little off on his ratios of Englishmen to Frenchmen). He’d originally dedicated the dictionary to Lord Chesterfield, who had agreed to help finance it, but no support was forthcoming from this so-called ‘patron’ until the work was almost finished. When he finally shelled out some cash, Johnson refused, asking him “Is not a patron sir, one who stands and watches a drowning man, only to encumber him with help when he reaches shore?”

So, when I finally managed to tear myself away from chez Johnson, with a promise to myself that I would be back on my next London visit, I went down the street to Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, which is one of the oldest pubs in London. Supposedly, Johnson was a frequent visitor, although there’s no hard evidence apart from the fact that he lived nearby. Then, since I’d come so far, I had a look at St. Paul’s (but didn’t actually tour it due to the rather steep entrance fee). I found my way back through Covenant Garden, where I wandered through the stands of the Apple Market, heard an impromptu violin concert, and saw Drury Lane, where the plays of Garrick debuted. Then, I melted into the throng on Oxford Street as I wound my way back to Marble Arch to meet up with Laura and Amanda so that we could go see “Wicked” that night.

The show was absolutely amazing. For those of you living in a cave for the last few years, it’s based on a novel of the same title by Gregory MacGuire and it tells the true story of the Wicked Witch of the West. The brilliant music and lyrics are by the incomparable Mr. Stephen Sondheim. We really lucked out, because they sell student tickets for 25 pounds, but for that amount you get a seat that usually costs 60 pounds. The cast was really talented and the set and costumes were gorgeous. You managed to get so lost in the world of the show that nothing else mattered, which is of course my favorite thing about theatre. The actress who played Elphaba, the witch, was especially memorable and had an amazing voice.

My second day in London was a little more frustrating, but I still managed to salvage it and I really have no one to blame for it but myself. I’d planned to squeeze in the Tate Modern, Shakespeare’s Globe, and the Tower of London. I’d discovered going to the show the night before that the London transportation is ridiculously expensive compared to its French counterpart. Two pounds for a bus ride or four pounds for a tube ride sounded stupid to me when I have a pair of highly serviceable legs that work just fine, thanks. Not being a Londoner myself, and not being particularly gifted with maps, I didn’t realize just what a stupid idea it was to walk all the way to the Tower of London, but I did it anyway, with a couple of wrong turns thrown in for good measure. Result? The walk took about two hours to get me to the Tate Modern, and tired me out a good deal as well. Still, I’d say it was worth it to wander around rooms filled with Warhol, Picasso, and Matisse for free. The Tate Modern is an extension of the Tate Britain, housed in what used to be a power plant. Right next door is the reconstruction of Shakespeare’s Globe, built about 400 years later, but using many of the original construction techniques. I didn’t actually tour the Globe because I wanted to save my money for the Tower of London, so I walked a little farther down the Thames, past London Bridge, to that fortress that served as prison to such famous individuals as Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey, and Sir Walter Raleigh.

First, I visited the Bloody Tower, where legend has it that Richard III had his two young nephews, Edward V and his brother Henry, killed in order to assure his succession to the throne upon the death of his brother, Edward IV. It also served as the apartments of Sir Walter Raleigh and his family, when Raleigh was imprisoned there for seven years. Next, I visited the Jewel House and saw the Crown Jewels, including the crown that incorporates 4 pearl earrings worn by Elizabeth I. I saw the flocks of huge black ravens marching across Tower Green, where Henry VIII had two of his six wives executed for treason, and where Lady Jane Grey, queen for 9 days before being imprisoned by Mary Tudor, also met her untimely end. Finally, I visited the White Tower, which is the oldest part of the Tower of London, began by William the Conqueror. Now, it holds armor and weapons from throughout the centuries. Since I’d already walked such a long way to the Tower, I figured I might as well see St. Olaf’s church while I was in the vicinity. St. Olaf’s is where the 17th century diarist Samuel Pepys (pronounced “peeps”) is buried. Pepys kept an extraordinarily detailed diary starting from around 1660, and it’s through his writings that we get most of our information about the major events that happened in London at that time, including the plague and the Great Fire. St. Olaf’s is just around the corner from the Tower, off of Pepys Street. Dickens called it “Old Ghastly Grim” for the three skulls above the doorway. Sadly, when I arrived I found it closed for renovations, so all I could do was take a picture of the exterior, and not actually go in and see where Pepys is buried.

Now, I’m a pretty strong woman, but there was no way I was walking all the way back to Marble Arch, with the light quickly fading. Instead, a caught a bus, but then got a little turned around on Oxford Street and ended up having to backtrack, which partially defeated the purpose. When I got back to Laura’s place, we decided to head out for some traditional “Pub Grub”, so she and Amanda and I walked a couple blocks, and I ordered the obligatory fish and chips with mush peas (which actually weren’t very mushy). After dinner, we just hung out and watched TV. It was so nice to hear House and Law and Order not dubbed over in French.

For my last full day in London, the weather forecast said rain, so I thought it would be a good day to do museums. First, I went back to Buckingham palace to try and see the changing of the guard, but as anyone who’s been to London will tell you, you can’t actually SEE anything for the Changing of the Guard unless you get there at 8 in the morning and camp out and threaten to bite anyone who tries to steal your spot. Otherwise, all you see are the backs of other tourists’ heads. I finally did catch a glimpse of a couple of lines of guards before I gave up and headed towards Herrod’s. I didn’t stay long in that ultimate Mecca of consumerism; just long enough to realize I’ll never be able to shop there. I did get my dad another Grand Marnier candy bar to replace the one Tundra had ingested post Christmas. After my little foray into the commercial sector, it was time to get cultured and hit Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery and National Portrait Gallery.

Oh, how I love art museums! To look at 400 year old paintings that look as if they could have been done yesterday, and to know that they are so above and beyond anything you could ever hope to achieve in your lifetime! To lose yourself in Pissaro’s speckled landscapes, or Renoir’s gauzy garden parties, or Monet’s manic water lilies, or Degas’ voyeuristic ballerinas. Some of the collection’s more famous works include Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers” and the Dutch painter Vermeer’s “Young Girl Standing at the Virginal” I particularly liked the paintings by one of my favorite French artists, Jacques-Louis David, as well as the works by the British artist William Hogarth. Hogarth did a wildly popular series of 6 paintings called “Marriage a la mode”, about the slow and steady breakdown of an arranged marriage between the son of a bankrupt Earl and the daughter of a wealthy merchant. They’re laugh out loud funny and horribly tragic all at the same time. After the National Gallery I went next door to the National Portrait Gallery to check out some famous faces. The National Portrait Gallery has the only known portrait of Shakespeare done by a contemporary. It also has several easily recognizable portraits of Tudor monarchs, photographs of everyone from Kate Moss to the Beatles, and a number of works by Sir Joshua Reynolds, the 18th century painter who was a close friend of Johnson’s.

So now it was Friday night, and while both Laura and I had been planning on an evening out to experience the London nightlife, we both decided that we were beat and that a night of Indian takeout, red wine, and a screening of Casino Royale sounded like a much better plan. The next morning I got up at 5:30 to catch the bus out to Luton airport to fly back to Paris. I hardly slept the night before because I was so nervous about oversleeping and missing my flight. Luckily the flight was uneventful, (must still be that St. Christopher Icon Clary and Elizabeth gave me) and I landed in Paris and took the RER B to Anne LePage’s apartment in the 5eme Arrondisement, since she’s a sweet and wonderful person who agreed to let me stay with her for my two nights in Paris while I awaited the arrival of my wonderful family. I met Anne’s roommate, Laurianne, and her unofficial roommate Luc, who is Laurianne’s fiancé. The two of us went for a quick walk around the Latin Quarter, where Anne introduced me to the coolest bookstore ever, Shakespeare and Co. It’s an English bookstore, full of nooks and crannies and twisted dark corners. The ground floor has books that are for sale, while they upper floor is a library where you can just come and curl up and read for as long as you’d like. There’s a piano in the middle of the store that says, “Please Play Me”. I fell instantly in love. Anne and I are both huge bibliophiles, so she also took me to a couple of her favorite French second hand bookstores, where I of course couldn’t resist making a couple of purchases. Anne and I get along so well because she’s as much of an Anglophile as I am a Francophile, and so we have a great cultural exchange going on. After we finished our browsing, we met Luc and Laurianne for a drink at a nearby bar, where we had a lengthy conversation about the particule. The particule is the “de” or “de la” that you see in a lot of French last names that means the family comes from nobility. Luc’s family has a double particule, so that means he’s really a big deal. We left the bar and went back to the apartment, where Laurianne made delicious tartines, which are grilled bread slices with Italian ham, tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, olive oil and basil. As we ate, we watched a film called “English Gardening”, which had Helen Mirren and Clive Owen. It was about a bunch of prisoners in an experimental prison in England who start a garden and end up going all the way to the national gardening show.

Sunday, Anne and I took it easy. She was studying for a big exam she has to take to be an English teacher (one that she will without a doubt pass since her English is PERFECT), and I was still recuperating from my London escapades. Luc was going out to the store, and I asked him if he could get me a pack of tissues, because I was out. He came back with the value size of 15 individual packs, so I should be good for a while. We took a brief stroll around Ile-de-la-cite, which is the oldest part of Paris. It’s the island in the middle of the Seine where the first inhabitants of Paris settled. It’s also home to Bethillion ice cream, which is supposedly the city’s best. Later that night we went out to a nearby sushi restaurant where the owners gave us some complimentary sake, and then we came back and watched episodes of the Black Adder, a hilarious British comedy series staring Rowan Atkinson and Hugh Laurie.

So that’s my “flying solo” leg of my winter vacation. I know after reading this magnum opus you’re just dying to hear all my misadventures with my flesh and blood in the land of the Gauls, but that’ll have to wait a couple more days because I haven’t written it yet. Cheers!

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Photos

Buckingham Palace
I mean, it's no Versailles, but it'll do

Johnson's House
The house on Gough's square....aka the best part of my London trip

Plaque
See, he really lived there!

"The Room"
Here's where it all happened-- the attic of the house where Johnson and his scribes compiled his magnum opus

Johnson
And here's the man himself

Drury Lane
You can almost imagine Garrick and Johnson walking the streets around Covenant Garden.

Tower Green
Here's where all those royal beheadings took place

St. Olaf's
see the skulls over the door?

Trafalgar Square
They've cleared out the Pigeons. If only they could manage the same thing in Venice