London, then slipping into memories

London, its celebration of empire, war, royalty, sickness, and gruesome death is incredible. I can’t remember – Does Madrid plode its history to the same extent? Does Madrid have anything like Enlightenment Hall in the British Museum? Spain’s world ended before the Brits’ did, but I’ll have to revisit Madrid some day to see how its great past has been preserved and commemorated. Britain’s imperial past has never ended in London.

Last month was Isaac and Jack’s first trip there. We skimmed the museums, St Paul’s Cathedral, Abbey Road, and the highlights of chilly, dry, central London. We rode the London Eye and a double decker hop-on-hop-off; we cruised the Thames, caught the Tube and walked walked walked, passing Big Ben several times a day.

On day two Isaac bought his 18 year old brother a mimosa, and Jack had a couple more at one of the best bars I’ve ever tippled, Montgomery Place in Notting Hill. Fish and chips were pushed everywhere, meh, but the South Indian vegetarian cuisine was memorable, and so were the Spanish joints. (The food and art of the other old empire parade throughout London.)

Our Doubletree hotel was next to the Tate Britain. We spent one afternoon there, so much to love from the regular displays to the Francis Frith photos and the video piece Simon Starling Phantom Ride. I returned twice without the boys and focused on the Basic Design and Looking at the View temporary exhibits. From the latter, Gillian Carnegie’s Black Square comes from Hampstead Heath in North London, but represented to me the forests of Northern California and Cathedral Grove, Vancouver Island that I cannot capture through photography. In the same display is The Nature of Our Looking by Gilbert & George, five very moving pieces that hint at some of the sadness and optimism of these artists. These two are new to me, and I’ll return to their work. (I know little about art and understand less.)

The photos below indicate challenges of visiting these huge museums: Even without crowds or lookers, the gigantic rooms filled with two rows of paintings are just overwhelming. My three visits to Tate Britain gave me three different perspectives, and it just deserves more time and reflection. Years ago I visited the Art Museum of the Chinese University of Hong Kong, a very different place whose small size and exquisite displays promote contemplation over awe. Uh, well, visiting and skimming is a good start.

So what did this London trip cost? 300K frequent flyer miles plus 600 bucks got us three first class tickets there (I’ve never done THAT before!), one business class, and two economy seats on the return. Pretty good for Jack’s first trip overseas. Careful preparation and luck on the hotel resulted in two rooms at about £130 per night so about $5000 slipped through my wallet, a lot more than my first trip 27 years ago. Back then I was very poor but hopeful from reading Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London.

My first trip to London was several days before and after a three week stay in Cromer with a group of Catalan students I was teaching. (Yes, the local toughs hassled the male students and hit on the girls. I met a Scottish girl and seldom understood anything she said.) After London I spent a month with my friend Francis in Dublin where his brother-in-law asked me, “How many pints can you drink?” I lied and said 4-5 but he told the truth, “I can drink 15.” That is a lot of piss, a lot. Central Dublin at closing time, racing for the last bus with scores of drunks, that was one of the most dangerous places I’d seen.

After Dublin I returned to London for a couple days and bought a ticket that said London-Paris. Man, a plain old Waukegan guy like me holding that, beyond anything I’d ever dreamed. In Paris I bought a ticket to Barcelona, staying in a windowless hostel with some Swedes who took me to the catacombs and around town. When I was down to a few francs, I dropped off my suitcase at the train station and spent a final afternoon outside Pompidou. A young massage therapist from Austria approached and we talked for several hours, wandering the streets and lighting candles. She invited me to her hotel, and I just could not, couldn’t. I had enough money for one sandwich on the train and a bus ride to my Barcelona apartment. Sad but I hit the road. On the train I met two Finnish girls and they spent a week in my apartment, but that’s another story. 1986. That was a long time ago.