In retrospect, not the best idea in the world. We landed at Heathrow a little early, about 6:00 AM London time, and waited about an hour for Antone's plane from Boston. Most of us had managed to rest a bit on the plane ("sleep" would clearly be the wrong word), which took the edge off the fatigue, so we felt in good enough shape to stroll around town. We were, as it turned out, wrong.
The last time I was in England, it was on the way back from Cyprus. It had just rained shortly before the plane landed and I was coming out of two months of being in the drought-stricken eastern Mediterranean, so on first impression (as the Underground became a bit less underground on the way out from Heathrow) the fields and neatly kept row houses were every bit as green and pleasant as one would want. This time, being a bit more awake, England struck me as being a lot like Boston. In particular, the Picadilly line from Heathrow into central London bears a striking resemblance to the C line out into the Boston suburbs. It's the same batch of mostly middle-class suburbs interspersed with enough vegetation that you can be fairly sure that you aren't completely in the city yet. London itself looks a lot like Boston writ large: organic curves to the streets and architecture clearly going back into the previous century, or at least trying to look like it does, with more modern buildings dropped in more or less at random as old ones here and there wear out. Even the graffiti looks the same, although it's a bit more legible here. Some guy going by the handle "Flex" has tagged pretty much everything between Hammersmith and Paddington. And, after wrestling with the Tube a bit, I can see where Neil Gaiman got the idea for Neverwhere. It's a maze down there.
We went from Heathrow to Paddington (I checked; no loose bears about) to discover that one of the largest train stations in London has no elevators, so we spent some time lifting Naomi up and down stairs, which was much easier than I expected. Score one for the Mariner Square Athletic Club, I suppose. Once we found a way to the street, we headed east more or less along Marleybone. The most touristy thing we did was to pass by 221 Baker St., but I had to put my foot down at the suggestion of Madame Tousaud's. By this time, we were getting pretty tired (indeed, it was about at this time that my main task became not to enjoy the rest of the day, but to endure it), so we stopped for a while at Regent's Park, which is when England finally started looking like England. There were people punting in the pond, swans and cranes, and one or two people walking sheepdogs. I also noticed that people over here can, in fact, end sentences with "innit?" and mean it. From there, we veered south for the British Museum and a painful side trip for some sort of cider-based drink in an Irish pub. The place was called "Finnegan's Wake," although I doubt that a word of James Joyce was ever read there. By the time we got to the BM, we were all far too tired to enjoy it. I had been awake for something like 24 hours straight. Never again. We made it into red-figure ware before finally giving up.
At the last minute, Antone's colleague Christina, who teaches in London, saved the day. She and Antone had arranged to meet at the BM and go somewhere close by for tea. Most places were closed (bank holiday, we eventually discovered), but she whisked us off to a place around the corner, the bar of the Hotel Russell. Once we dealt with the steps (too old a building for ramps, of course), we were in the sort of hotel the word "London" suggests at its best moments: dark wood paneling about half-way up followed by white walls, crystal chandeliers, velvet curtains, Oriental vases, oil paintings, and deep red-orange leather furniture. That last item was particularly welcome at this point. Other people drank Coke or juice, but I was adamant about having tea. I ordered the Darjeeling, and it was the right way to go. I think I had as much stuff set in front of me as the rest of the table put together: tea strainer, teapot, another pot of hot water, cream pitcher, bowl of sweeteners, and, of course, a teacup. After a pleasant hour of tea and nineteenth century interior décor, I was perhaps no less tired, but certainly much better able to deal with it. I think I begin to see what it is the British see in tea.
Views of the Hotel Russell, lifted quietly from a promotional web site.
I suspect they won't mind.
England has no Exit signs. They all say "Way Out," to which I can only reply "Groovy, man."