Day Out

"Where've you been?" you ask. I wish I could say that I've been doing something glamorous, like partying in Ibiza or hopping the train to Paris; but alas, I've been largely engaged in that necessary but thoroughly uninteresting activity known as work.

This week is different, though.

Michele's taken the kids and left me. Not permanently, but they've gone back to the States for a few weeks to visit. Apparently, Caroline's in ecstacy at seeing her cousin Ryan again. They're getting married, I hear. I suppose we'll have to break it to her at some point that they can't, in point of fact, be married. On the other hand, there were a lot of weddings between first cousins here in Merrie Olde England back in the day, I wonder if it's still legal.

So today I spent my first Saturday alone since I don't know when. Possibly the first one ever. I had big plans. Sleep until 10, no, 11. Brekkies at some cafe in town. Back by 1 for my nap. Lunch at a pub around 3. A little stroll through the air conditioned mall, dinner at a nice restaurant, some evening telly, bed by 9. In short, my day was going to be spent doing as little as humanly possible. I would breathe and eat, but anything beyond that would require serious consideration. So far, though, my plans haven't worked out - my day has been much more productive than I had intended. Must do something about that tomorrow.

Rather than sleep in I was wide awake at 6:30. Now why doesn't that happen during the week when I need to get up for work? Well, I'll be damned if I'm getting up at 6:30 on a Saturday when when there's no earthly reason to do so, so despite the brilliant sunshine streaming in around the curtains, I managed to force myself back to sleep until half past 7. Unfortunately, my body simply refused to sleep any more after that, so rather than risk bedsores I got up. Then, in some strange sort of brain seizure, I thought it would be a great idea to head up to Notting Hill for a nose around the Portobello Road market.

You may not know this about me, but inertia and I are normally locked in an epic battle. Maybe it's because I sit in an office all day, but I have to expend an enormous amount of mental energy to rouse myself to do much of anything. I find all sorts of excuses: I don't know how to get there. I don't know what it'll be like. It'll be full of tourists. It's too hot/cold/sunny/rainy/early/late. I'm hungry.

Today, though, I'm glad I bothered to get out of bed, because it really was a great day. The weather was beautiful for starters, and Notting Hill is a pleasant area full of flowers and trees and twisting cobblestone streets and the sort of grand old town homes that make you wish you had a morning suit and real money. Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts may have been the lead actors in the eponymous film (one of my favorites, despite the corny ending), but the real star of that movie was the area.

The market itself, while definitely not a good place to take kids (it's crowded and full of the kinds of fragile, priceless objects that our son seems to gravitate to), is easily walkable, with plenty of interesting things to admire and wonder about their purpose, if not actually to buy. There are lots of interesting shops as well, though as it was market day, there were stalls lining the road, thereby rendering the shops largely unnecessary. I'll go back another day to poke around the shops.

The market is a great place for people watching, too. I saw an old lady with pink hair and purple everything else (lips, nails, clothes, stockings, shoes). I saw a man walking with his dog on his shoulders. I saw a guy absolutely livid because someone had poured paint all over his car. Seriously. Gallons of it. This seemed too random to be random, so I wonder who he pissed off? Or maybe it was some kind of performance art piece. It's hard to tell sometimes.

After breakfast in a cafe (eggs on toast with a grilled tomAHtoe, not the full English breakfast), had another stroll to try to find the "town". Apparently, there isn't really one - Portobello Road is about as close as it comes. I did, however, walk up to the top of Notting Hill, which is an actual hill, although not a very big one.

Back down the other side and you hit a main road, Notting Hill Gate. This road is neither picturesque nor pedestrian friendly, so I aimed to get out of there as quickly as possible. But not before I was stopped by some German tourists who asked the way to Notting Hill. "The market or the actual hill?" I asked smugly. I'm so well travelled.

Having successfully directed my German friends to the market (which, much to their surprise, was not called the Notting Hill market), I set off in the general direction of Kensington Park. Kensington Park is the back garden of Kensington Palace, which is, or was, the home of Princess Diana. Kensington Park was also where J.M. Barrie, the guy who wrote the Peter Pan stories, spent much of his time. So naturally, there's a Peter Pan-themed playground dedicated to Princess Diana. Adults can't actually go in unless accompianied by a child, but judging from the map outside, it's HUGE.

Had a nice walk through Kensington Park, then sat in the sun and watched the pond for about an hour. Now normally even I wouldn't be inert for that long, but as I had had to pay for the use of the deck chair upon which I had perched my weary bottom, I felt obliged to get my money's worth. But I'm glad I did, because in so doing, I got to see a great cross-section of London life. The little Greek guy with the hairy pot belly, Groucho Marx eyebrows and unbuttoned shirt whose sole occupation seemed to be chatting up unattractive female tourists. The 18-month old on a leash. The little girl riding a bike by herself for the first time. The elderly couple supporting each other as they shuffled along the path. The mother admonishing her kids not to "stand in poo." That's sound advice, mom.

After such an extended period of inactivity, I was feeling a little peckish, so I headed down into South Kensington to find a pub and have some lunch. A word about pubs in London. Pubs are so important here that the Elephant and Castle tube stop is named for the local boozer, as there's neither elephant nor castle in the vicinity. Pubs are generally family friendly, but are somewhat spotty when it comes to food. In this regard, pubs are to London what Ruby Tuesday is to America. I have heard that there are pubs in the Parliament buildings, though I'm not sure this is true. I do know that pubs near the Houses have a special bell that's rung when there's an important vote going on. It's called the division bell, which is also the title of a Pink Floyd album. (I wonder if I could get some sort of grant for this blog as an educational resource).

Another fact about pubs: they are everywhere. Everywhere, that is, except in South Kensington, where, with a growing sense of urgency as the sky grew darker and I developed a desperate need for the toilet, I searched in vain for that beacon of hope, that bastion of civilization, the carved and gilded pub sign. Finally, frothing at the mouth and driven half mad with the simultaneous needs for a wee and some grub, I ducked into a betting parlor and asked someone for a decent pub. He graciously (though somewhat perplexedly) pointed out the one about 10 feet down the road. Maybe next time I'll wear my glasses.

Thus relieved at Ye Olde Zeitgeist Arms (or something like that), I ordered the steak pie with mash (-ed potatoes) and "mushy peas". Mushy peas are exactly what they sound like. They are peas, they are mushy. No mystery there. I also ordered the obligatory pint of ale. Many of my American friends labor under the impression that the Brits drink warm beer. This is not true. It's room temperature, which will feel cool unless either the room is hotter 98.6 or you're a lizard. And you CAN get cold beer, just don't order the ale.

It was at this point that the rain started; not like the rain we had yesterday, which was more waterfall than mere rain, but still heavy enough to make me glad to be inside a sturdy shelter that also happened to serve food and drink. Problem is, after gobbling up two weeks' worth of starch and washing it down with a beer, there's not much left to do in a pub. I suppose I could order another, but I was feeling a bit bloated after the heavy meal, and besides, who wants to drink alone? OK, who besides that guy with the watery eyes and the plaid jacket at the end of the bar?

Since the rain didn't show any sign of letting up, I reluctantly decided to make my way home. Waiting on the platform, a woman asked me how to get to Paddington station. Hmm. A bit more difficult than the "where's Notting Hill" question, but no problem for a stalwart local such as myself. Still flushed with my early success at providing good directions, I produced my pocket A-Z guide and deftly directed the young lady to Paddington via the least complicated route. Aren't I wonderful? And, apparently, quite British-looking.

It wasn't until I was on the train and had an opportunity to examine a tube map that was larger than a match head that I realized I'd given her the wrong directions. Evidently, apart from the ability to speak English, I'm wholly unqualified to give directions to anyone but German tourists. For all I know, the poor girl's still going round and round on the Circle Line thinking to herself that London must be an awfully big place and isn't it funny that so many stations have the same names. Fortunately, the tubes shut at midnight, so there's little chance she'll have to spend the rest of her life in this state. Next time someone asks me for directions, I'm going to yelp and skitter away.

One last story. On a crowded underground train, an obviously out-of-town family had had the abysmally poor judgement to sit with one of the many drunks who lend such character and charm to the tubes. And no, it wasn't me, thanks. The girl, perhaps 12, and the boy, maybe 8, looked both amused and horrified as they desperately tried to cover their noses against the odor wafting from the man.

Welcome to London, kids. Now go shower and find a pub.