Anarchy in the UK: Part 1: Automobiles, Trains, and Planes

Ever since I was a wee one, and caught a bout of Anglophilia at an early age, I have wanted to visit England. For many years, a variety of circumstances have thwarted my attempts at journeying across the pond—first a lack of cross-pond-journeying funds, and then a crippling fear of flying. Both issues having been resolved (more or less), I was finally able to head overseas last week, not only to visit London for the first time ever, but also to see a couple of my oldest and dearest friends, expatriate Americans who moved to London in 1999.

And I finally realized what I had been missing all these years—London is a great city! I loved it! Sure, the weather is really depressing, which could explain why there is an average of three pubs for every person, but that aside, I felt more at home there than in any American city I had ever visited...or even lived in.

The voyage itself was a combination of planes, trains, and automobiles. I left Saratoga at 10:30 a.m. on Friday to drive to the Albany-Rensselaer train station, to catch a noon train to Penn Station. (Lead us not into Penn Station...) This would give me four hours to make a 6:30 p.m. flight out of Newark. Too much time, I originally thought, but the only other option would give me two hours’ lead time—but knowing Amtrak as I do, I opted for the biggest time gap I could.
And, as it turned out, it was the right decision. For some reason (the weather was perfect), all the trains were late out of Albany, and the noon train didn’t leave until about 12:45, and then crept down the track. A girl on a tricycle on an adjacent road was moving faster than the train. I should have asked her for a ride.

Fortunately, I got in about 3:30 and caught a New Jersey Transit train to Newark Airport. The most time-consuming part was finding the British Airways realm, which was unlabeled, and two different airport workers told me two different things. Finally, I found it in a sub-basement, with a very lengthy and sluggish moving line for check in. I had time, so I accepted the reality and waited my turn.

Security was about what it had been on the Atlanta trip, although three people examined my passport—and it was only later waiting at the gate that I discovered the legend that said “Passport not valid until signed” which I had neglected to heed. No one caught that; gotta love that security.

The flight was a tad late taking off, as there were massive thunderstorms moving through Newark. But, being a veteran of Amtrak, 45 minutes late is nothing.

Anyway, the flight to Heathrow was actually quite pleasant, despite the fact that I was wedged into a middle seat (the flight was completely full). British Airways is a rather nice airline—friendly, polite flight crews, captains who keep everyone apprised of what is going on, the food was quite good, and there was no extra charge for beer, which is always a plus in my book.

I landed about 7:30 Saturday morning, London time, after having slept only fitfully on the plane. For some reason, our arrival took the airport staff completely by surprise (heck, it’s not like a planeload of people dropped in unannounced; I had known about the flight since I bought tickets back in June) and they had no gate available, so we parked elsewhere and took a bus to the terminal.

Passport Control took about 45 minutes to get through, as many many people were arriving. Which I guess worked out, because by the time I was done with that the baggage had all been unloaded and my suitcase was awaiting me.

I found an American Express kiosk and exchanged my low-value Bush Bucks for British pounds--$100 became £44. Ugh.

Anyway, as I was humming the line from a Monty Python song, “I’m so worried about the baggage retrieval system they have at Heathrow,” my friend Steven met me outside the gate and was nice enough to buy me some coffee at a Starbucks (god, they’re everywhere). We then took the scenic route—there being no other route, really—from Heathrow to his house in the London borough of Hackney (causing me to recall the Robyn Hitchcock lyric, from “Point it at Gran,” “When Princess Anne’s 82 and living in a one-room flat in Hackney...”). There, his wife Amy was waiting with their two children—three-year-old Godwin and one-year-old Sibella. Godwin and I bonded almost immediately.

That afternoon, we went down to Borough Market south of the River Thames to do some shopping. Basically, Borough Market is an immense (and immensely crowded) farmer’s market, with stalls of fresh vegetables, meats (they even offer butchery workshops—the Jack the Ripper jokes were fairly obvious, I suppose), and, to my delight, an immense variety of beers and ales. We stopped for lunch and I got some authentic (and very good) British fish and chips.

The next day (Sunday), I was happily over my jet lag, and we bundled up the kiddies and headed out to the British Museum which, it being Sunday, was very crowded, but not unbearably so, except around the mummies and the Rosetta Stone. Amy, herself being a museum curator with a photographic memory, was better to have along than a proper tour guide, and she explained many many things, especially the story of the discovery and deciphering of the Rosetta Stone.

The Rosetta Stone was discovered in 1799 in the Nile Delta in a village called Rashid (called “Rosetta” by Europeans). It was found by members of the Napoleonic expedition to Egypt—say what you will about Napoleon, but he was dedicated to science and history and made it a point to investigate scientifically those regions he planned to conquer. Sporting of him, really. As we all know, the Rosetta Stone bears three sets of inscriptions—one in Greek, one in demotic Egyptian (the “official” written language of ancient Egypt), and one in hieroglyphics. Greek, everyone knew, but the other two...not so much. At the time, Egyptology was a nascent study, and no one knew how to decipher either its demotic language or hieroglyphics (even today, no one is sure how to pronounce “falcon” or “three wavy lines”). Scholars spent years trying to decipher the Rosetta Stone, but it was Jean Francois Champollion who finally did it, identifying certain proper names (like “Ptolemy”) and going from there.

So what does the Rosetta Stone actually say? Basically, it is a copy of a decree commemorating the first anniversary of Ptolemy V’s coronation. Yes, disappointingly, the Rosetta Stone is little more than an ancient press release.

There are many many other cool things in the British Museum; the Mesopotamian relics are interesting, and the Greek and Roman antiquities are especially cool. Amy made mention of one drinking bowl that bore a sort of “surgeon general’s warning” concerning alcoholic overindulgence—inside the cup was an illustration of someone vomiting. I don’t know how effective it was. Phallus worship was big in Greece and Rome and they had one rather elaborate phallus wind chime—and the caption card literally said (I am not making this up) “This chime would be placed in the yard and could be heard tinkling in the wind.” A remarkable antiquity indeed.

There are also the Portland vases, important because it was one of these that inspired John Keats to write “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” However, my repeating of the old joke “What’s a Greek Urn? A buck and a quarter an hour” almost led my hosts to smash a Portland vase over my head.

We grabbed lunch at the British Museum cafe and told Godwin that he could get Mummy Meat. He seemed enthused by this...

Alas, Amy said the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus was very cool, but was closed when we were there (I wonder if you can rent it out for parties?).

The day was drawing to a close, and that night we had Indian take away—excellent!
Steven was kind enough to take Monday and Tuesday off to escort me around. We got a somewhat late-ish start on Monday and took the Underground to the original City of London. The London Underground uses fare cards known as Oyster Cards, so-called because they fold out in a vinyl wallet like a bivalve—gotta love it. (It is also because, with it, the world—or, at the very least, the city—is your oyster.) It was here that I was introduced to the whole “Mind the Gap” business—which is basically a neverending announcement to be careful of the gap between the Tube train and the platform. Incidentally, I am impressed with the Tube; it is logically run, seems fairly reliable (some lines have their problems, I’m told), and is pretty easy to figure out. People tend to be polite and courteous, even at rush hour, and moving about is done in quite an orderly fashion. The stations and trains are very clean and the seats are actually upholstered; vandalism does not appear to be a problem. (These seats would last five seconds in NYC.) Sure, nothing is air conditioned (few things in Britain are, for the simple reason that 99% of the year there is no need for it), but you can open the windows and get a nice breeze.

Anyway, Steven and I had lunch at a very old pub near St. Paul’s called Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, which I loved, although I did learn one very important lesson: “Light” beer in Britain means “non-alcoholic.” I won’t make that mistake again!

Here is Steven in front of the pub:
The pub was around the corner from Samuel Johnson’s house, which we wandered over to and toured. Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) was a poet, essayist, biographer, lexicographer, and a literary critic. He was also well known for his aphorisms, but one of his lasting claims to fame is that he compiled the very first English dictionary, and they had several copies (reproductions, natch) on display. I was reminded, of course, of the episode of Black Adder the Third, featuring Dr. Johnson and this classic exchange:

Dr. Johnson: Here it is, sir: the very cornerstone of English scholarship. This book, sir, contains every word in our beloved language.
...
Edmund: Every single one, sir?

Dr. Johnson: (confidently) Every single word, sir!

Edmund: (to Prince) Oh, well, in that case, sir, I hope you will not object if I also offer the Doctor my most enthusiastic contrafribularities.

Dr. Johnson: What?

Edmund: 'Contrafribularites', sir? It is a common word down our way...

Dr. Johnson: Damn! (writes in the book)

Edmund: Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I'm anispeptic, frasmotic, even compunctuous to have caused you such pericombobulation.

Dr. Johnson: What? What? WHAT?

Prince George: What are you on about, Blackadder? This is all beginning to sound a bit like dago talk to me.

Edmund: I'm sorry, sir. I merely wished to congratulate the Doctor on not having left out a single word. (J sneers) Shall I fetch the tea, Your Highness?

Prince George: Yes, yes! And get that damned fire up here, will you?

Edmund: Certainly, sir. I shall return interfrastically. (exits) (J writes some more)

And of course, as it turned out, he dictionary omitted the word "sausage."

We're just getting started. To be continued....