Ugly Elf

Happy 4th of July from Sunny London. Another day of perfect weather.

I think the sign said 23° C, but it felt warmer.

We ate breakfast at the Hostel; I was still doing my best to keep my way of eating, so rather than having a Bap (Biscuit-egg-sausage monstrosity of joy), I asked if they could make me something just egg. They could! So I had scrambled eggs, plain yogurt, a pear, a kiwi, and tea.

Luxury!

Alexandra kenned into the fact that I’m crazy.

Sommer and Michael, who mostly ate the way I did, abandoned their diets and bapped their way to satiety (Mind the Bap).

We bought tickets at the Hostel for the London Eye. There were two advantages: first, a discount; and second, we could skip the ticket counter and head straight for the queue of the Eye. Brilliant! Then we dashed off so as not to be late for meeting Alexandra’s friends.

We headed by Underground (Mind the Gap) for the London Eye. Alexandra’s friends were going to meet us by 9:30. Despite Alexandra’s anxiety, she likes things going just to plan, at 9:30 AM we were there.

They were not.

A little after ten they showed up. Her friends were Norman, Linda, Tony, and Linda’s husband — I’m pretty sure that was his name: Linda’s husband. They were lovely folks. But they didn’t even have tickets yet! So we waited, and it takes awhile, and eventually they got tickets and we all got in the queue, a long queue, and even more eventually we got to the front of the line.

At the head of the line we were told that our group ticket from the hostel would not, in point of fact, get us directly onto the Eye, and we could not skip the ticket line as we were told.

We all got out of line, and we headed back for the ticket counter while they, Alexandra’s friends, waited for (incompetent) us. And it took a while; eventually we got tickets and we all got in the queue for the Eye, it was a long queue, and even more eventually we got to the front of the line. Alexandra’s friends were sweet and patient; they took no notice of the egg on our face.

Eventually we rode the Eye. It doesn’t stop as you get on — exciting! — but very slow — slowly exciting.

The view was incredible. I could see Everything (capital ‘e’), and yes, I learnt all the secrets of the universe… but I forgot them by the time we came down. Short attention span and such.

On the ground again, we said good-bye to Alexandra’s friends. Or at least I guess we did — I don’t actually know; one minute they were there, the next gone like fucking ninjas.

We crossed over Westminster Bridge and began our day of historical touristing.

OK people, here is my vow: I will never again look at historic sights without doing my homework first. When we were there, this is what I saw and this is what I thought: we looked at Big Ben—it’s big, it’s Ben; we looked at Parliament—closed; we looked at the Cavalry Museum—not to be mistaken with a Calvary; saw White Hall—closed and why do people want to look at this? But if I’d done my homework I would’ve known I was looking at some of the coolest shit in the world.

First off, the area is the City of Westminster in London Borough. Those-who-give-names often aren’t those-with-creative-genius; thus we have the Palace of Westminster, Westminster Bridge, Westminster Abbey, and Downing St. and White Hall.

The approximate location of the Palace of Westminster has been used as a royal home since at least the time of Cnut the Great — an unbelievable bad-ass who took the thrones of England, Denmark, Norway, and Sweden — that’s how hard he rolled. A generation and a half later, William the Conquerer, Duke of Normandy, decided that Cnut hadn’t rolled hard enough, and beat England like it was a red-headed step child. In prison terms, France made England its bitch. Anyway, William’s third son, William II or William Rufus, owns the distinction of building the oldest, still-extant part of Westminster, Westminster Hall. He, by the way, was king from 1087–1100; during which time he kicked much ass over what is now the UK, but not Wales. Go Red Dragon!

Westminster is often called Parliament because (surprise!) that’s where Parliament meets. What might surprise you more is that’s where they’ve met since the thirteenth century. Eight. Hundred. Years! Remember John of England? Richard the Lionheart’s douchebag bro? He pushed the nobles too far, they pushed back and forced him to sign the Magna Carta in 1215. Soon after, parliament started to meet in Westminster. Jonny, by the way, didn’t even have the fortitude to die like a man: he died of dysentery while running from the French. The French! Way to go John. Way to go.

Attention-Deficit summery:
Westminster Palace saw much construction from the thirteenth to nineteenth century. Then almost the whole thing burns down in 1834. Incompetence succeeded in destroying the palace where intrigue had failed back in 1605: this was the site of the Gunpowder Plot, the reason the entire english-speaking world, with the exception of America, celebrates Fireworks Day, aka Bonfire Day, aka Guy Fawkes Day. I think we’re just jealous because while Guy Fawkes was the only honest man ever to enter parliament, we’ve never had an honest man in congress. Anyway, after the 1834 fire, they hired some guys to rebuild it; who died while doing so (but not very romantically). Big Ben (the clock tower) started keeping its paces in 1859. And the whole palace got repeatedly hammered by Nazis (the fucking Nazis!) during the Blitz .

Since its rebuilding in 1834, the whole palace-thingum has suffered a ridiculous amount of trouble with London’s pollution, but maybe they shouldn’t have built it from limestone. Jack-a-ninnies. Even so, the whole thing’s unbelievably cool: there are eleven hundred rooms, about a hundred stairwells, statues of Oliver Cromwell (Lord Protector of England, Commander in the New Model Army, and hero of the English Civil War), and hey, check out the amazing Queen’s Entrance in Victoria Tower! (Above Left.) But as our luck was bad, they weren’t doing tours that day. I’m not sure we ever found out why; summer tours are definitely available.

One last mote floating around my head: These days, it’s forbidden for members of parliament to eat or drink in the chamber, with the exception of the Chancellor of the Exchequer (that’s like our Secretary of the Treasury), who may indulge in a libation while giving the budget statement. I love these people!

Moving on.

We went briefly by Westminster Abbey, but since it’s closed for Sunday service, we figured out a time when we could come back and went on. More on the Abbey later.

Alexandra wanted to see White Hall. Honestly, I’m ignorant: I didn’t know what White Hall was and I wasn’t bothered. It was a beautiful day. I was with wonderful people. We could have sat down on a street corner or picked a random direction to walk in and I would have been happy as a cat rolled in catnip. So White Hall it was.

A grand plan indeed.

Except that it’s not.

White Hall, modern, is a large complex housing a bunch of not-very-exciting government buildings. None of which is specifically named White Hall. The street is White Hall, and there are street signs on several buildings to that effect (they put street signs in London on the sides of buildings). Thus I thought we saw White Hall when we didn’t. What I can only assume Alexandra was so keen to find was the Palace of White Hall. The Palace was the largest, most-complex, arguably-most-splendid castle in all of Europe… before it burnt down in 1698.

So, you know, we were late.

The old palace would have been grand to see and has a grand history. When King Henry VIII surveyed the grounds, then York Place, he brought along Anne Boleyn. (York Place. Yes, York as in York v. Lancaster — Wars of the Roses; or as it was known in the late fifteenth century: Bringeth it on, ye bitches!) Poor Anne, she got such a bad deal in life, and a bad rap from that terrible, fiction-based movie. Anyhoo, White Hall. Primary residence of Kings from 1530 to 1698. Grand to see. Moving on.

What we did find was a big field — not the grassy kind, the brown-gravel kind — and a place labeled Cavalry Museum. Those of you with a more complete background than mine know that’s Horse Guard Parade and Horse Guard. We could smell Horse Guard before seeing it; as the name implies the entire super-sized city block has the strong, but not unpleasant, odor of horse — not surprising for a place that’s been used for tournaments since old-boy Henry Vee-Eye-Eye-Eye brought the thunder to the throne and the fear to the papacy. More recently Horse Guard Parade has been used for polo championships, not polio championships, and hear to tell, it will be used for volley ball in the 2012 London Olympics.

Horse Guard Parade and Horse Guard are built on the site of the old White Hall Palace Guard House. So Alexandra’s sense of direction was perfect if not her punctuality. Cool shit happened at Horse Guards too. Once, Queen Victoria came onto the ground and found the guards missing — they were drunk — she, not amused, ordered them to parade every day at 4:00 PM for the next hundred years. They’ve been doing it for a hundred and thirty years.

The building is still used by two active military groups. The London District and the Household Cavalry (Blues and Royals, plus some other dudes in tight pants). Neither of which is the boys in green clustered to the right. No idea what they’re on about.

Now this is a member of the Blues and Royals:

See that uniform? Click the image and see the whole thing. The weather was Blistering and those guys stand there for two hours at a pop. Yeesh. I didn’t take a picture of the guys on horses; pretty much the same deal. The horses were frothing at the mouth.

You can find out more here.

The next stop was Buckingham Palace; cause, you know, Buckingham….

As always happens when you’re here and you want to be there, there’s all this betwixt stuff in between. We decided to go through St. James Park. As an aside, we did not get to St. James Palace, which is awesome, historically speaking of course, and has those picturesque, big-hat guards everyone takes their photo with. Next time.

St. James Park was as pleasant, as faerie tale, and as satisfying an urban park as ever I’ve seen. Under the poplars and elms and next to the pellucid lake lived or visited an abundance of wildlife: white swans, black swan (singular), several types of geese, varicolored duck-like birds what weren’t ducks, a magpie, and tourists. Despite the many people enjoying the day and the park, I felt peace, nature, and removal from the urban grind. For the Win.

St. James Park has been around a long time. Long enough that the mind wanders and wonders over the millennia and generations. Could we have seen it a hundred years ago, it would have looked much the same. Two hundred years ago would put the park just before the remodeling carried out by George the IV, king of Hanover (Prussia), England, and Ireland. George IV was to give it its modern shape, including the lake and meandering pathways.

For around a hundred and fifty years before that, from circa 1660 to circa 1824 the park was in the style of the French, with a canal and straight paths. It would have looked like a highly-manicured garden rather than a tucked-away pocket of nature. This was the work of Charles II. A bit of a jerk, but after Cromwell died (did you know England was a Republic there for a while?), they didn’t know what to do, so they reinstated the monarchy and brought back the son of King Charles I; who was executed at White Hall Palace in 1649 by Cromwell.

And if our way-back machine could take us to the park prior to all that, back to James the First’s rule, we wouldn’t see a public park at all, but rather a private park and royal menagerie filled with camels and elephants and the works. James I was a total fuck, but his incompetence is very likely why we Americans speak English rather than Dutch. Read this if you have the time, excellent book. Prior to the menagerie, the park area was just undeveloped marshland. That’s how Anne Boleyn would have seen it.

I was delighted to see a black swan there; only the second I’d seen in my life:

I remember the first. I was ten. My mother was still newly married to my step-dad. I was getting used to the horrors of his temper and the horrors of his humor; they were mostly the same: the administration of pink-bellies, indian burns, and arm locks on me; to the delight and laughter of my brother and sister. (My sister doesn’t remember this, but my brother still feels guilty. I forgave them all years ago.) As I say, I was ten; we were in Vancouver, B.C., Stanley Park. It’s a huge urban park, third biggest in North America, centered around a large lake. While we walked the circumference, I left the group.

I remember; from a long way off I saw a group of birds in the water, unremarkable at that distance, and a man standing watching them from the bank. As I got closer I thought it was strange that this man just stood watching the birds. It must have taken me twenty minutes to walk that far and still he hadn’t moved. Everyone else walked or ambled, sat or strolled; but he stood hands-in-pockets watching the birds. Then, among the geese, ducks, and gulls swimming in that little bay, I saw the biggest, blackest bird imaginable. I don’t know how I missed it before. The delicate swoop of its neck curved down, it’s red bill drooping. It stayed away off from the other birds; as though it wanted to belong, but didn’t. I came closer and watched the birds too.

After five or ten minutes the man spoke to me without taking his eyes off the black swan. He was excited and proud and sad as he said with a thick Australian accent, “That’s a black swan. They’re from where I’m from. They don’t belong here. It’s a long way from home. I don’t know how it got here.”

I wasn’t sure if he was still talking about the bird. Above his hunched shoulders, his neck curved forward as he watched the birds, his bearded, reddish-brown chin drooping.

St. James park was the first place I’ve ever seen a magpie, though I didn’t know its name. I knew it was a corvid, it was beautiful, and I loved it. I’d learn in an old Welsh castle that this was the magpie of my childhood faerie tales.

We didn’t stay long in the park; we didn’t even walk all the way through. Poor Alexandra had too many allergies. My worst allergies in London, or the entire trip for that matter, were along the London roads; along those roads Alexandra and I suffered equally, but in the park she was much worse off and clearly in pain— poor dove. She soldiered on her bestest and we returned to the roads. (Vroooom!) Except walking. (Step-step step.)

Buckingham Palace turned out to be the place to be — for everyone and their god-damned dog. Seriously. Look at that crowd! Or click on the picture for a closer look. Anyhoo. It seems there’s no tours of Buckingham Palace anymore, or we couldn’t find where you’d get one, and we were still anxious to find a place to tour, so we left quickly. I’m not a big fan of the Buck. The most interesting thing to me is that when Westminster burnt down, King William IV tried to give Buckingham to Parliament because he didn’t like it. They didn’t like it either and refused.

Moving right along.

We wandered on toward lunch, the most important meal of the middle of the day, other than elvenses. Did I mention that Sommer has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of Hobbit nutrition? She does.

Near Buckingham palace we found Henry’s. I should back up. We were looking for a place to eat; I’m not a grain eater, which seems like nonsense to Alexandra, but she was a good sportand let us find me a place to eat. So we found Henry’s Cafe Bar on Piccadilly. Though a London chain, it’s a stellar choice. We started with an appetizer of chicken liver, which was awesome. (Yes, chicken liver can be awe inspiring.) And then a Tuna Nicoise salad, which was delicious and filling. The tuna was fresh, obviously not frozen, and still very pink in the middle. Perfect.

We had some daylight left and were determined to fill it with adventure. We caught the Underground (Mind the Gap) and headed to the Natural History Museum.

I loved the Natural History Museum, but after a long day of touresting, I was worn out. After more than three thousand words in this post, I’m likewise worn out. If you’re still with me than either I’m doing a great job writing this, or you’re a stalker. I hope you’re a stalker. I’ve always wanted my very own stalker. I’d make a great pet!

The building, she’s stunning, inside and out! Outside it’s replete with gargoyles from the natural world; many gargoyles were of extinct animals, but not all. Inside the building feels like a church where one might worship science. Some of the exhibits were out dated: they still insist that dinosaurs are reprtiles; some of the exhibits are quirky and have dead ends: the exhibit-viewing crowds flow to the end and crush back like salmon heading both ways in a stream. They’ve made the laudable choice not to collect new specimens, so their preserved animals are faded and dusty. But it was gorgeous, and it was history and science and whimsy, and this was the place where Darwin himself came to research (the library is still available, but only by appointment).

After, we had more time, so we wandered down Cromwell Rd and then on further down Brompton Rd. Alexandra needed allergy meds and I needed camera batteries, so we stopped in at Boot’s Pharmacy, a chain common accross the UK. Next we found a little touristy souvenir shop. London is full of them. Michael wanted to go in, Alexandra didn’t — she bought the most; I’m not sure if he bought anything. Alexandra likes to buy a magnet from every place she goes. A clever idea and one I wish I’d imitated. I bought a “Mind the Gap” mug with a map of the underground on it.

We were coming up on time for the organ recital, open to the public (but not to gawkers), at Westminster Abbey. Onto the Underground we went (Mind the Gap).

I think we were all exhausted by then. The side entrance to Westminster Abbey seems like the main one. We were a little startled when we got there, a deacon (I think that’s the right term; correct me if I’m wrong) was at the gate yelling, red-faced at a couple of tourists. They wanted to listen to the organ recital, but had asked the Deacon if they could go in and look around. No. No you cannot. Sunday is not for tourists; it is for worshipers. We walked up and said we were here for the recital. He let us in and kept yelling at the first group.

We were inside the Abbey before the start of the recital. We stayed until the end: quiet and polite as church mice. There was no desire on our parts to cause disruption. None of us took photos, and we hung back with a small crowd near the entrance. The pews were full, and, in The Deacon’s defense, many people were poorly behaved. I don’t recall seeing a flash, but there were pictures taken despite the clearly posted interdiction. Some of our fellow hunker-at-the-door onlookers only came in for a few minutes, generally during the recital, and left again. Over the course of the recital, at least a dozen people in the pews got up and left. This was highly disruptive. My fellow travelers, this is not a matter of religion. I’m an atheist. Everyone needs a place to decompress and for religious people this is it. We should respect their god-fearing chillax time just as much as we respect our own pint-at-the-pub time or walk-in-the-woods time. To put it another way: when in church, do as the christlings, even if the church in question is a tourist attraction.

Enough of that. The building itself was beautiful, of course; if there’s one thing religion has right, it’s the insides of ancient worship halls. But what I thought was so cool was some of the random statues and monuments stuck into nooks near the doorway. Here I was, on the Fourth of July, in an English church reading a plaque in honor of those who fell during the American Revolution — from the British side. Awesome!

I have to admit that sleepy as I was, I nodded off a couple times. But I did so very discreetly.

OK, I’m doing history blurbs, so here’s the history blurb: the Abbey was built and rebuilt, making it hard to say exactly when it’s from, but the point is: it’s fucking old. The proper name is Collegiate Church of St. Peter at Westminster. You try saying that fast, thus, Westminster Abbey. It’s a Royal Peculiar, that means its allegiance is to the king, not the church, which has a lot to do with why Henry VIII didn’t raze it like the other churches when he did his whole Church of England prest-o-change-o thing. It really was a college, and maybe still is; I can’t figure it out. Westminster Abbey was the third biggest college in England, after Oxford and Cambridge until the 19th century. Here, most of the old and new Testaments were translated into the King James Bible. Lots of people had their coronations here; you know: king folk. And many also were buried here. So I assume there’s a tomb somewhere.

Anyway, we woke up when the music stopped; We headed back to the Youth Hostel by way of that marvel-of-ease-and-mobility known as the Underground (Mind the Gap).

Food news: Dinner was had next door to the hostel, at Euston Flyer Fuller’s pub. Fuller’s Pubs are a chain, The Euston Flyer is the one in, wait for it, Euston. As a collective we tried two different beers, ESB and Honeydue. Some preferred the one, some the other. For a chain beer it was pretty good. I liked the fish & chips, others were less impressed. Michael and Sommer enjoyed the shepherds pie, which in America is made with ground beef, but in the rest of the world is made with ground lamb. Because it’s a fucking shepherd’s pie, not a cowhand pie. For fuck’s sake Team America, get it right.

One of the most important travel tips I learnt came straight out of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy: bring a towel. Hostels don’t have them. This hostel sold towels, pretty cheap too, but most just rent them and they usually cost as much to rent as mine did to buy. Showering is even nicer when you’re tired and foreign than when you’re rested and domestic, so: Traveler’s Tip: Bring a towel.

And that was the end of the day. Next we were off to Wales to chase the Red Dragon!

I’m impressed that you’ve made it this far. I put a lot of work into this post, and I hope you enjoyed it. Please take a minute to leave a comment, and reward yourself for reading, or thank me for writing, depending on your proclivities.

Thanks ever-body ever-body!
—The Ugly Elf