12 January 2016 UK
Bright and early, I’m off to London, but not to visit the Queen. I forgot to tell her I’d be in town. So I guess I’ll be on my own. I’m dropped off at the station by Mark, our host and friend, who proves to be a great source of information on getting the most out of the city.
The train into the city takes me past what I can only describe as urban sprawl. Weathered brick buildings display tangled graffiti, bulging letters which seem to be in another language. I pick out a few legible phrases here and there. “Mr. Baker”. I wonder if that is a tribute or an insult? “Two pieces of chicken”. “Acne”. Large red streaks proclaim, “Belly”. I would love to know what the artists were thinking and why they went to all this trouble to communicate something I cannot decipher.
London’s congestion closes in as we approach the city. One building proudly displays a sign, “City View Hotel”. I doubt that it could possibly have a view of London or anything else, other than the building up against it. Dismal high rises crowd wearily in on each other as the miles pass. Who on earth must call these places “home”?
I exit the train at Liverpool Street and spot the London Museum just up the street. No map needed. This is my first stop. I’m grateful for the four layers of clothing I’m wearing, especially the long underwear. It is needed on this damp and nippy morning. I’m amazed at how many Londoners are cruising around in light jackets, hatless. They do move along quickly, and I don’t blame them.
I have learned to limit my museum time; my brain begins to choke after the first hour or so. Pacing myself accordingly, I cruise along, stopping briefly to catch highlights, starting with the Romans. The prehistoric area is overrun with a group of adorable but noisy school children, and their even noisier teacher. “Now children, quiet down,” rings in my ears. I quickly work my way out of earshot, on to kings and princes and popes. Henry VIII and his battles with the church, Cromwell’s beheading of King Charles I, Bishop Latimer’s issues with Edward VI. I feel admiration for the British students who have to gain a working knowledge of so many years of history. It’s no small task.
The time comes to escape from this information overload and head down the street to St. Paul’s cathedral. At my first glimpse, its sheer grandeur takes my breath away. It is massively beautiful. I circle around its perimeter, taking it all in. Christopher Wren certainly knew what he was doing. I’ve read that he built many more churches in the London area in his time, after the great fire of 1666 destroyed much of the city. This must be his prime achievement.
I head south toward the Thames, turning west near the Millennium Bridge to begin my walk along the river toward Big Ben. The wind is ruffling the gray waters of the Thames. It’s cold; I slip my mittens on and walk a little faster. Runners and joggers whiz by almost incessantly. I pass immense buildings that peak my curiosity, but I don’t stop at all of them. It would take me forever. I do check out the statues if they are marked, and get a few surprises along the way. There is Robert Raikes, father of the Sunday School.
Who could this next one be? Oh, I know about this heroic man. His name is William Tyndale. He was martyred by King Edward VI in 1536 for translating the Bible from Latin into English. He just wouldn’t stop. His dying words were a prayer. “Lord, open the King of England’s eyes”. One year later there was an English Bible in every parish church, by the King’s command.
I round a bend and there he is, Big Ben, just as a cloud lifts and reveals a patch of blue sky. A bus passes by, with the sign “I love Mormon” lettered on its side. Which one, I wonder.
Now I skirt around Parliament, which stretches over several blocks, its lofty golden towers piercing the sky. I inquire, and learn that yes, it is possible to gain entry. Helpful guards direct me to the entry point, St. Stephen’s gate, and I bravely work my way through several security guards into the bowels of this immense place. I climb several sets of stairs and at last am seated in the gallery where I can observe the workings of the House of Commons. It is not very exciting, but two MP’s argue for bills to address England’s housing problem. Their debate takes me back to what I observed as I rode the train into the city this morning.
I’ve never seen the interior of St. Margaret’s church next to Westminster Abbey, so I make a brief stop there. A beautiful stained glass window adorns the wall behind the sanctuary. I decide to forego the pleasure of the Abbey, as I’ve seen it before, and a wintry twilight is coming on. So I hop on the Tube and am scooted across town to Liverpool Station, with just time enough to buy a cup of hot coffee and a toffee caramel muffin for the train ride home. The lowering sun has turned a few random clouds brilliant pink for some sort of celestial celebration. I stare upward, hoping that others will notice, but no one does. The crowds are intent on earth at the moment.
The train ride home through the gathering dusk gives me a chance to savor the day. As we gradually escape the congestion and work our way north, I begin to see the occasional lone tree again. It strikes me that left to itself and given room to grow, every tree becomes a work of art, its branches fanning upward toward the sky. Its beauty of form is fully revealed when it sheds its leaves for the winter. Like snowflakes, like people, no two trees are exactly alike. Trees need room to grow. People need room to grow. As we race away from the tired outskirts of London past these innumerable high rise projects, I think back to the MP’s concern for mothers who are raising their children in these places, or worse ones. We have the same problems in America. Will our children thrive or be stunted?
That night we dine with my husband’s class at the India Palace Restaurant down at the end of the lane. Just for fun, a group of us hike down the long driveway through mist and rain, splashing into an occasional puddle in the darkness. We feast together family style, sharing bites of savory Indian dishes – rogan josh, mater panir, tandoori. What a great group of bright, outgoing and energetic people. Accents from various parts of the UK, the Netherlands, Belgium and Sweden mingle as conversation flows freely. A cultural confluence, a pleasingly motley gathering. It’s an honor to break bread with them.
