Nightglow Window

Vauxhall And I

This is gonna be a rough one. Let's see what writing at 10:30 after crossing nine time zones gets you.

A mammoth day—or is it two days?

Things went well getting to LAX, with only the briefest detour to Liz’s house where we dropped off the girls and piled into Liz’s car. A short spat with Christy threatened to derail the afternoon, but we recovered gracefully with the aid of a large Karl Strauss beer in the terminal.

Getting pretty sick of flying, and our seat assignments didn’t help matters much. 34F, basically the back of the bus in the center of the center aisle. High School kids in front of us extremely excited about their big adventure, but they eventually settle down.

I tried to sleep, but knowing that I needed it made it impossible to find. We pass over the Great Lakes, silently and at 33,000 feet, and my mind finally settles. Eventually sleep arrives as we neared the coast of Labrador and the hop over the Atlantic to Greenland was a peaceful slumber. I awake again over Belfast with about an hour to go in the flight.

So of the ten hours we were in the air, I may have slept four.

A snafu at the gate left us sitting on the plane for an additional 35 minutes, but customs was a breeze and we were soon in the Tube heading from Heathrow down to the Green Park Station.

It’s hot. A heat wave has arrived and the locals look wilted.

And what an incredible march of humanity it is. You forget just how homogenized most parts of America are until you land in some place like London, where people of all nationalities and looks appear (at first glance) content to coexist. A mélange exotic and beautiful. Londoners are stylish, and the look of the moment is clean pull-backed hair, tight blouses and jeans or capris. The sunglasses are important too.

The men are groomed, and I ask Christy what she things of them after I rubber neck for the tenth time as one of the girls walk by. She likes the preppy young Prince William types, and there seems to be a fair degree of those as well.

We transfer Tube lines and head to Vauxhall Station. A rather unstylish address and the hotel is at the end of a long walk through typical neighborhoods; kids getting out of school and convienence shops -- except once again there’s a huge variety of ethnicities and everyone looks well groomed.

The hotel is pretty lousy, but it will make due. We quickly wash our faces and brush our teeth before heading out the door again -- can’t let entropy find us. The jet lag seems minimal as well -- so far.

We debate whether we want to jump back down in the tube or walk. The day is so nice that we decide on the latter and it’s a good choice.

We really miss Brian. We talk about how it isn't just missing a travel companion, but the opportunity to catch up with a friend we don't see enough. He's certainly in our thoughts and in our conversation with everything we see and do.

The Thames, silty and not terribly pretty with its rubbish and flotsam, is close at hand and, once we cross over, the views continue to improve. We finally duck into a small park beneath Victoria’s Tower and Parliament. Uniformed boys play catch in the large, tree-rimmed grassy area, practicing their cricket pitches in the long windmill motion that seems to me so British.

We sit on the grass in front of Westminter Abbey (which closed to visitors a few moments ago -- it now being 4:15 this hot afternoon) and look up at Big Ben and watch the people go by. Soon, we pull up stakes and head across the Thames again to walk beneath The Eye, an absolutely massive, slowly moving Ferris Wheel that must easily be 400 feet tall. It crowds the riverfront and vies with Parliament and Big Ben for supremacy. Someday I’m going to pay the 20£ and see the view, but not today.

The riverfront park is full of street performers, some of them quite good. We re-caffinate and head, once again, back across The Thames on the pedistrian bridge and plunge into the trendy neighborhoods of Soho and Covent Gardens.

We stick our head in the Savoy, one of the most trendy and expensive of London’s hotels, but fail to spot any young starlettes or blownout rock stars.

Christy’s feet are beginning to cramp and hotspots on my feet are threatening blisters, so we stop for a beer (Corona and lime, a weird taste of home). We still have time before dinner, so we actually go to the movies and see The Lake House. It was ok. Made me want to check out Jane Austen’s Persuasion as well.

Strolled down Frith street in Soho, a haven for great apparel stores and ethnic restaurants and you could see something big was happening. The World Cup and hundreds of Italians are packed in the street where a flatscreen TV is showing the game. It’s a sea of people who cheer wildly at every good pass. I wonder what the crowd would sound like if Italy actually scored a goal as we walk past a parade of asses sitting on the barricade separating the throng from what remains of the sidewalk.

Just then, GOAL!!

The crowd goes bananas and it’s impossible not to smile, not to be carried away in their exultation. Huge smiles on our faces, we make it past the masses and I tell Christy, very honestly, “That may turn out to be the highlight of the trip.” Smiles still on our mugs, we finally decide on a Thai restaurant. Chirsty orders the Curry, and I the basil chicken, but we end up sharing, which is fine.

Now it’s 10:30 at the end of this terribly long, deliciously wonderful day and Christy breathes softly next to me, asleep. Wakeup call at 4:45 a.m. to catch the train to Stansted and the flight to Stockholm, so I’ll sign off for now.

Sorry for all the typos.