Notes and photos from the city of mince pies and other phenomena
Ihave been coming to London since 1982. And, for the first time, I don’t speak to an immigration officer in the airport. Everything is automated (if that’s the word). You present your face to the camera and — you’re in. All nice ’n’ biometric.
It’s incredibly fast and convenient. But I think of something: A conversation with an immigration officer once gave me a very good opening for a piece.
• For the train from the airport into town, you don’t buy a ticket from a person. You buy it from a machine. And, on the train, you don’t show your ticket to anyone.
Pondering such situations, I often think, “Well, we don’t have elevator operators anymore . . .”
Think of the gas-station attendants, too! (I understand they’re still alive and well in New Jersey.) (About old Jersey — which I am now closer to — I can’t say.)
• In train stations, and subway stations, a voice over the public-address system makes an announcement, routinely. It is a lovely feminine voice. She says, essentially, that if you see something odd — something untoward or possibly threatening — you are to tell some official, and the official will straighten it out. He’ll “get it sorted.” This leads to the tag-line, “See it, say it, sorted.”
I hear that many times during my stay in London. “See it, say it, sorted.” Quite lyrical (especially — in fact, only — in a British accent).
• When it comes to trains that move underground, taking people from place to place in cities, some of us say “subway.” Some say “metro.” Some say “tube” . . .
• Here in Britain, people drive on the left, as you know. So they pass on the right. But, oddly, on escalators and things, they tend to stand on the right and pass on the left, as people do elsewhere in the world. What gives? That is an inconsistency, I find.
• As a Michigan kid, I always thought that pasties were a specialty of our state, particularly its Upper Peninsula. But like so many things American, they come from the British Isles, and, in this case, Cornwall, in particular.
• I love little differences — and big differences — between language in the U.K. and language in the U.S. Here in London, I use an ATM that says, “Your cash is being counted.” Then, “Take your cash promptly.”
By the way, when I first used an ATM, a bank machine, back in Ann Arbor — this was moons ago — it was called a “Ready Teller.”
• We put dogs on leashes. They put them on “leads.”
• A cabbie bids me farewell by saying, “Cheerio.” I am so glad — so glad — that’s still said (outside of Mary Poppins).
• First time I’ve ever seen this humble abode in the post-Elizabeth era. It feels different. If I thought about it, I could articulate it for you. But suffice it to say, for now: It just feels different.
Real monarchists support the monarchy no matter who is the incumbent. It’s the monarchy that counts, not the incumbent. Monarchs come and go. There is an expression here in Britain: “queenist.” This refers to a person who is not hot on the monarchy in general but who was deeply admiring of Elizabeth II.
I get it.
• Is Frederick, Duke of York, worth looking up to? I hope so — because you certainly have to.
• Captain James Cook is not everyone’s cup of tea. He’s a controversial historical figure. But I think we can stipulate: He look damn good up on that pedestal. (No, that was not a typo, by the way.)
• Over the years, I have always paused to look at this WWI memorial. It is very well done. Perfectly done, I think.
• Of the many beautiful things in the world, aren’t beautiful gates especially so?
• A smart address in Knightsbridge:
• Montpelier Walk is also in Knightsbridge. I have a story — or rather, someone else’s story — to relate:
A week or two ago, I wrote about Mario Vargas Llosa, the Peruvian-born novelist and political writer. In a recent book, he recounts the famous dinner given by Hugh Thomas for Prime Minister Thatcher in 1982. Many intellectuals were at the dinner, including Vargas Llosa.
When she was introduced to Vargas Llosa, Thatcher asked him where he lived (where he lived in London). “Montpelier Walk,” he said. “Ah,” she answered, “you’re a neighbor of Arthur Koestler.”
She knew her intellectuals, and cared about them.
• London is full of foreigners. I don’t think I meet anyone in any store or other establishment who’s U.K.-born. They all have accents, from different quarters of the world. Assimilation is a big debate, a big question, and I’m doin’ a breezy journal. But my impression is: These people are as British as shepherd’s pie, and if they’re not, their children will be, or are.
Is there a problem with politically radical Muslims, bent on non-assimilation (and worse)? There is. Can this problem be managed, reduced? I think so.
In any event, Britain has always been a land of immigrants, same as its offspring, the United States (and Canada and Australia), and its new prime minister is striking testimony to that fact.
• Above, I spoke of pie. Is what you see here apple pie? Not in my book, baby!
• I’ve seen many restaurants. I don’t think I’d ever seen a specifically Kuwaiti one.
• Behold four British staples: pie, mash, liquor, and eels.
• Talk about British staples: Rules is this city’s oldest restaurant, established in 1798. Jugged hare!
• And if you’re not quite in the mood for jugged hare — a taste of NOLA, across the street:
(“NOLA,” you recall, stands for “New Orleans, La.”)
• Whoa. It’s early November, and it’s beginning to look a lot like . . .
A lot like . . .
A lot like . . .
• This is from the top, or near the top, of the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden:
• I don’t wish to go on an anti–New York rant. But, in London, I hear a lot of dogs not barking. No vagrancy, or not much. No begging, or not much. No skunk weed — that foul, noxious pot that pervades Gotham’s air. No garbage everywhere.
London shows what New York used to: that a big city can be clean, orderly, delightful . . .
I don’t mean to romanticize the place, but even the bicycles stop for you here, as you cross the street. Mirabile dictu (as Bill Buckley would say).
And you can understand announcements over the p.a. system on the subway. They are meant to be understood — which is positively weird.
• A Londoner tells me that eateries and shops are having a hard time getting help. They’re having to close early, or close altogether. “People say, ‘We need doctors and engineers — STEM whizzes.’ But hell, we need waiters and baristas and clerks! We need everybody, not just the fancy types!”
• But back to the romantic. Here is Royal Albert Hall, in the gloaming:
Did you like my British word? “Gloaming”?
• And here is the Albert Memorial, across the street:
• Is this a British picture or what? I’m a sucker for school uniforms, anywhere.
• Big ol’ Rolls. Big ol’ Rolls. Is it on your Christmas list?
• A sharp-lookin’ lady crosses the street from the Marble Arch:
• When a young usher looks at my ticket at Wigmore Hall — or “the Wigmore,” as some say — she says, “Brilliant.” They do like their “brilliant,” the Brits.
• No offense to London, but I’m afraid Paris has them beat in this department:
• Tawmbout:
Cheerio.
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