Our dinner had run gloriously long at Chez Dumonet the night before and we finally got into bed around 12:30. We had to get cracking the next morning to make the Eurostar train to London--it left at 7:30ish (which meant we were up at 6:00), and you gain an hour traveling to London, so it put us into St Pancras station around 9:00 am, if memory serves. When I word it like that, it gives nary a hint of the all-out travel hell we went through trying to get through customs at Gare du Nord in Paris which was mind-numbingly inefficient and which, at one point, resulted in full-on panic that we would not make our train. Zut alors, I wanted to strangle someone! Which is why when we finally got on our train and sat down and were settled, this happened:
You're welcome, Colleen and Danna.
This is maybe a good time to confess to the world that transportation stress is like no other stress in the world for me. And I have very poor coping skills. My fellow travelers already know this about me, but now the world does as well. There you go. I have expectations of myself and the systems that are in place and when those do not line up with reality, Lesli has a nice, little mental breakdown. Even if no one around me has said or done a single thing to make me feel like I'm responsible, I feel responsible. And it feels like shouldering a large sofa while trying to walk normally. It's one of the things I am most not-at-peace with about myself.
So the Eurostar boarding thing about did me in. But I nipped down to the snack car and got a hot tea and came back to work on my laptop, which calmed me a bit. And eventually, the train came to a stop in London. Ahhhhh, precious precious English London. Land of tea done properly, English accents, the Royals, lush parks, storybook architecture, smartly-dressed soldiers, cute taxis, and hub of myriad literary figures and references: I adore you.
I've lost count of how many times I've been to London as when Dean and I lived in Belfast for several years while he attended graduate school, we used to hop $100 flights over for long weekends and prowl around. It would be like going from Knoxville to Atlanta (which is not even a comparison and now I must cry). And I've continued to go back whenever even remotely possible. I work it into almost any trip overseas. And whenever I have the privilege of stepping out onto London pavement, I honestly feel that I am at home. As a bonus, coming from a week in Paris: everyone speaks English. Praise the Lord and pass the warm scones.
Having reached my fill of London sightseeing years ago, but arriving with friends who had yet to see one sight, I encouraged them to hop the double-decker bus and enjoy the ride for a while. It's really the best way to see the most in a short amount of time and allows one to get acclimated to the city.
There they go!
After my transportation stress from earlier in the morning coupled with the shortest night of sleep I'd had on the trip thus far, I was ready for a little solo breakfast, London-style. I made my way to The Wolseley on Piccadilly.
As soon as I descended into my first tube stop, I inhaled the warm, thick air that can only be found three flights underground and instantaneously felt at peace. Interestingly enough, I never felt this peace in the Metro stations in Paris--they rather had the opposite effect on me. Only underground London makes me feel this way. It's probably the speaking-English bit.
I have to pause right here and go no further until I mention something extraordinary. If you've been reading the Paris posts, you know that my fairest and dearest from Belfast, Suzanne, was sadly unable to join us in Paris after having been the first one to jump on board this wild birthday ride. Due to a family circumstance beyond her control, she was unable to leave Belfast for an extended amount of time. But when we decided to do the day trip to London, a glimmer of hope appeared that she might be able to fly there and back in the day and get to intersect us that way. Just days out, she confirmed and we rejoiced that we'd get to put arms around one another!! When two friends are separated by an ocean, the heartache can be brutal. When said friends get to have face-to-face contact, it is so rare that the excitement can be a shade obnoxious for anyone within earshot.
Suzanne's flight put her into London before us that morning and she had plans to breakfast with another friend, so our plan was to meet up afterward. So come on back to The Wolseley with me for a minute....
I still think about The Wolseley. It ministered to me that morning. I opened the huge doors and walked into the waiting area as my gaze was turned up and around this 1920s extravaganza of a restaurant. Black and white, chrome, gorgeous light fixtures, waiters galore, trays, clinking cups to saucers, shiny silver teapots, starched napkins, hustle bustle, and a steady conversational hum that made me want to settle into a booth and never leave.
I was offered a newspaper and accepted, but I hardly got any reading done as I was primarily distracted by a most amazing creature seated right next to me: the cutest man in London wearing a three-piece houndstooth suit, bow tie and spectacles, dining alone and reading his paper. His wingtips were ivory and chocolate brown with lots of little design dots and edging and they were worn in. This man wasn't trying to be anyone else--he came as himself. I was so happy to be sitting next to him that I gushed almost immediately, "Your suit is fabulous." I strangely felt as if we knew each other and proceeded in that line of behavior. Well-dressed men remind me of my father, without fail, and I have a fondness for the sight of them. Larry Beckham was not one to skimp on clothing and valued the details and process involved in highly-tailored pieces. So when I see a man who has put thought and a bit of coin into his attire, I see him coming and I feel like I know him a little bit.
He laughed and thanked me for the compliment. And then I tried to play it cool and examine the menu but I just couldn't concentrate because my joy adrenalin was rising higher by the second--I was in London, at a solo breakfast, seated next to a man in a houndstooth suit and soon I would have tea--in a teapot, steaming hot, with a little pouring filter, a teacup, saucer, demitasse spoon, little jug of milk and beautiful jar of golden honey. In spite of myself, I leaned over to Mr. Spectacles and asked him if I could take his picture. He laughed again and before he could deny me, I clicked him with my camera. I desired that moment preserved. And so it is. I love you, Mr. S.
I ordered porridge and caramelized grapefruit and, of course, tea. I lingered as long as I dared, trying to inhale every single detail, failing miserably at reading my paper, and basking in the glow of a greatly needed solitude and sip-fest.
I eventually summoned the will to get up from the table and bid The Wolseley farewell. I wanted to walk, walk, walk and see and smell and hear London. As was a chronic issue for me on the trip, my phone could not seem to keep up with the demands of being used in a foreign country and I was already seeing dreadfully low battery life very early in the day. I walked to the Apple store in Covent Garden to charge and wait for Suzanne. Harking back to the word, "obnoxious," from earlier in the storytelling, Suzanne quietly sneaked up on me from behind while I was at the charging station and nearly scared the tea out of me to the point of my screaming as if I'd seen the ghost of Matthew Crawley. Every SINGLE person in the entire place turned to stare for several seconds while we hugged and laughed and hugged tighter. It was so good to hug my friend.
With my phone sufficiently charged and the girls having texted that their time on the bus tour had come to an end, they split up with Beth (who was branching off to meet a friend she knew from college days) while Danna and Colleen promptly made their way over to meet Suz and me in Covent Garden. Next on the list: Cath Kidston.
I dare say Cath Kidston was one of Colleen's main reasons for coming on the trip. I could be wrong. But I bet I'm not. If you've never heard of her, Cath Kidston is a lady/London-based retailer of every little feminine and domestic lovely you can possibly imagine with polka dots and florals galore. Her things are vintage/fresh/girly and walking in one of her stores makes me feel like I'm 8 again at the Hello Kitty store. I want one of everything. It's all SO CUTE.
So this was a major part of the day. We oohed and ahhed and deliberated and put things back and picked up more things and finally purchased and departed. Then we hopped up to Marks & Spencer's food hall to get some snacks as our tummies weren't convinced they could wait two more hours til afternoon tea. M&S is such a great spot. For an ode to Marks & Spencer on our UK trip from the previous year, see this link.
We then split again and agreed to meet for our final London appointment of the day: afternoon tea at The Goring. I had an errand to run and Suzanne accompanied me--I needed to get to the Bridgewater Pottery shop in Marlyebone to buy a replacement top for my teapot which had broken and gone unreplaced for almost two years. Because that teapot was a purchase from our Belfast days, I could not part with it just because it was topless. I knew there would come a day when I could find a replacement and today was that day. It's the little victories that mean the most.
Meet Suzanne. This is called, "Giddy in the Taxi." It doesn't take much.
Pressed for time, we hopped in a black taxi to head to The Goring. Once there, we were seated on a tufted, golden leather sofa which spanned the length of the short end of the dining room underneath a huge painting of an elegant and mysterious lady, surrounded by a thick and ornate gilt frame. You'll forgive me for thinking the whole moment golden.
The whole experience was sublime except that Suz had to make her way to the airport towards the end and we all had to bid her adieu. Understand that Group 1 had been conversing via Facebook in the weeks and months leading up to the trip without ever having met Suzanne, so getting to meet her in London was a full circle moment for everyone. And everyone wanted their picture made with her before she left! Anyone at The Goring that afternoon could've been forgiven for a.) being annoyed with our picture-taking and b.) thinking Suzanne was someone famous that they just couldn't quite recognize.
And so it was time for us to head back to St. Pancras station to board the Eurostar back to Paris. With intense motivation to avoid the travel stresses from the front end of our journey and with an awareness that it was rush hour, we arrived extra early to the station, only to be met with complete and utter simplicity, efficiency and ease of check-in--a blessed complete reversal of fortune from the Parisian way of doing things (ahem). At this point, I was nearly delirious from exhaustion and almost immediately nodded my head back on the seat as my mouth popped open in baby bird's beak-style, falling deeply into irresistible slumber. Farewell, dear London....
We eventually arrived back to Maison 1400 and fell into bed. A truly exhausting way to spend a day, but so glad to have had the chance.
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