13 January 2016
Back on the train on this crisp and cold morning. Mark drives me to the station and expresses relief from the soggy winter weather that has lingered in the UK for weeks. The sunlight is a welcome change, in spite of the chill in the air. You can always put on a jacket, as he says. The train takes me back into London, through the village of Tottenham Hale and past a sign that reads, “T K Maxx” I wonder if it is the same as our “T J Maxx”. So many things over here are like that, just a hair off from what we would see in the US.
I grab the Tube, stopping to pay 30 p. to use the toilet. This is a new experience for me, as free public toilets can usually be found, but I don’t argue with the machine. As I exit the Tube at Westminster, I hear the strains of “Jerusalem”, the English national anthem, a song I have learned to love. The words are moving and patriotic. A van with a loudspeaker is blaring it out, and people are singing along as they go about their business. It is a refreshing and hopeful sound, so I sing along too.
I stroll down Whitehall between huge government buildings, and suddenly realize that I am ready for a snack. The chill winter air has perked up my appetite. Just then I come upon an old pub, “The Clarence”, that offers something called “Bubble and Squeak”. What is it, I wonder. I duck in and settle into a cushy chair by the window to order it, and am pleasantly surprised. It’s a thick mound of savory mashed potatoes filled with bits of veggies, hot and buttery, just right to take the chill off. Oh, how good every mouthwatering bite tastes. My young server has no idea of the origin of the name. But I later learn that years ago, when roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and potatoes were Sunday dinner fare, the leftovers would be combined into a skillet the next day, to “bubble and squeak” into Monday’s dinner. Washday was too busy for cooking another meal.
Fortified from the inside out, I continue down Whitehall to the Horse Guards, but am too late to see the changing of the Guard. I walk over the grounds where King Henry once held jousting tournaments, and through a gate to view two motionless guards mounted on magnificent horses, swords drawn. There is a statue of General Roberts. Later I do research and discover that he was a famous military leader in the mid 1800’s in Afghanistan. Why on earth did the British want to campaign there, I wonder. I suppose they had their reasons.
There is the National Art Museum at the end of the street. Most of the London museums are free, including this one, and this takes the edge off my frustration at again having to pay for a toilet. At least it is forcing me to learn English coinage.
The museum is made up of many rooms, color coded according to time periods. I start in the 1300’s and gradually work my way into post-impressionism, noting the drift from iconic and religious idealization to realism. Here is Botticelli, here is Michaelangelo. Paintings of Madonna and Christchild predominate. Now comes Rubens, a change to reality, flesh and blood. Personalities are forever frozen in time on canvas. Oh, the use of light! How did Turner capture the misty light of dawn spreading over that fishing village?
Now Van Gogh – Sunflowers! The Farm at Arles!
Suddenly I am arrested by strains of “Stairway to Heaven”. It seems incongruous. What on earth is happening? A side room is filled with 100 or so people, listening intently to the music. When it stops, a guide continues the discussion of a large Rubens painting hanging on the wall in the front of the room. There is Pax, breast bared, ready to nourish the child by her side. Other children group at her feet in the light. Behind her stands Minerva, goddess of wisdom, dressed in soldiers’ armor. She is forcibly resisting Mars, god of war, who hovers behind the children in the darkness, ready to pounce on them.
Does the music relate to the painting? If so, how? The guide elicits the audience’s responses. I think, what have I got to lose? If I make a fool of myself, I will never see these people again. So I raise my hand to throw in my two cents’ worth about the vulnerability of the children, the ongoing struggle between light and darkness, the ever present threat of evil. It’s fun. I’ve found that it is usually possible to say something coherent in public situations, if one chooses the right words and speaks with authority and confidence. No one really knows if you are right are wrong, for the most part.
By now I’m “museumed out”. Shaking off the visual intensity, I proceed out into the nippy afternoon and stroll around Leicester Square, famous for its theaters and street performers. The cold temperatures have kept most of the entertainers indoors, but I find some break dancers performing and spend a few moments watching them. I spot a young homeless woman camped on her blankets on the street corner, begging. I can’t just go on. I leave her with the snacks from my bag, yogurt and cookies and cheese. She thanks me with warmth in her voice. I walk on, thinking of what a small and inadequate gesture I have just made. I’m reminded of Brother James’ words, “Go, I wish you well, keep warm and well fed”. Should I have bought her a sweater or something? I have so many sweaters, so much money for food, so many options and comforts.
On to Piccadilly Circus just a few blocks away. Under the statue of Eros, which dominates the square, a bagpiper pipes out Scottish tunes. Looking around, I notice a man and a woman conversing intently on the other side of the statue. The woman holds a Bible, and presently begins to speak through a microphone, after singing a little song. What a contrast to the theater marquees all around us, the lights proclaiming every sort of entertainment. A few people gather to listen, some to mock her, but she bravely carries on for some time with a simple message. She reminds me of St. Alban and the statues of modern day martyrs I saw in the cathedral.
Dusk comes early in January. Night is beginning to fall in the streets of London. Time to make my way back to the the train to Harlow andreturn to the comforts of “Ware” for the night.