London Today, Yesterday, and Tomorrow

 

London has a sameness, an old grandmother of a city, but at the same time, you might easily be surprised by changes.  

 

Where I stayed in Kensington, there were five coffee shops on the street facing the hotel. Four of them no longer accept cash.  Gotta use a card.  One waitress offered to take cash, but added, “I have no way to give you change.”  It was £5 for coffee and toast.  I had a £20 note.  No choice but to use my card.  Nothing appeared on the menu and no warning on the front door that said cash was not used.

 

London (don’t know about the rest of Britain) is not the only place on earth getting rid of cash. Sweden is almost cashless and furthermore your card better be a “tap” card, although some places may still accept the old fashioned cards.

 

In London pubs, at least ones I went to, do accept cash, but I wonder for how long.

 

Not everything is changing. Pubs are still open at eleven o’clock or noon. I don’t know why; some are 11 and some are 12.

London has a vast array of museums of every sort, 192 museums in fact, placing them #5 in the list of cities with the most museums.  You can look up the rankings, but you probably want to know who is #1. Paris with 297.

 

My favorite London museums are, in no special order:

 

The British Museum with everything imaginable, including miles of architectural exhibits from all over the world, as well as the famous this and that, of which my favorite is the Rosetta Stone, from which linguists learned the secrets of many ancient languages.

 

The National Gallery, housing art of every sort, including a masterful collection of Impressionist paintings.

 

And very close to the National Gallery is The National Portrait Museum where I recently viewed a collection of David Hockney’s work. 

 

The V & A Museum (Victoria and Albert), which houses so very many cultural items.  I had a wonderful guided tour, with a guide who knew everything about clothes worn through the ages.

 

There are many war museums, including Churchill’s War Rooms and The Imperial War Museum, plus many others.

 

Special exhibits change, so look before you go.

 

How about evening activities?  My favorite, bar none, are the theatres. I buy my tickets at the discount kiosk in Leicester Square. Leicester is pronounced Lester.

 

Very easy to get around in London.  The Tubes (Underground rail) connect every part of the city. With a new twist, you no longer have to use an Oyster Card as a ticket, which is a card that you refill with £ on machines (that are in every station). These days you can use your credit or debit “tap” card to ride.

 

How about getting from the States to London? There are Atlantic crossings if you prefer to go by ship.  Or, if you want to dash over and back, air travel is in great supply.  My two favorite airlines to London are Virgin Atlantic and British Air.  Not fond of the U.S. airlines. 

 

Heathrow and Gatwick are the two major airports that service London.  Very similar in distance, but my favorite is Heathrow with an easy tube ride to the Kensington area where I usually stay. Lots of nice hotels, pubs, restaurants, and transportation to every part of the city.

 

I’ve been to London off and on for over five decades and written of my adventures.  Below is a list of those on my blog.

 

https://stroudallover.blogspot.com/2017/11/theres-something-about-london.html

 

https://stroudallover.blogspot.com/2016/01/posh-london-tour-of-st-james-street.html

 

https://stroudallover.blogspot.com/2015/04/london-various-pubs-various-pleasures.html

 

https://stroudallover.blogspot.com/2015/02/going-down-tubes-part-tube.html

 

https://stroudallover.blogspot.com/2014/12/finding-london-bookstores-adventure.html

 

https://stroudallover.blogspot.com/2013/11/the-national-portrait-gallery-london.html

 

https://stroudallover.blogspot.com/2012/06/down-tha-local-tasty-british.html

 

https://stroudallover.blogspot.com/2021/11/theatres-fun-in-london.html  Especially for plays, it’s best to check online.  Theatre productions come and go.

 

When to go?  I like early fall, or early spring.  Not so crowed and I’ve had great luck with the weather.  BUT, whenever you go, London is going to be a wonderful treat!

Sankt Martin's Fest

Sankt Martin’s Fest

Travel is an interesting concept and fairly new.   Used to take months to get to Europe from the New World. Three generations ago, as a young man, my grandfather rode from Florida to South Carolina on a mule.  The U.S. was mostly rural.  Travel meant going to the closest big city, only ten or twenty miles at the most.

Now we hop on a jet and go from the heart of the United States to London in about seven hours. Another hour and a half gets us to Berlin or Rome.

Somehow, local travel has become less attractive, or maybe we just take it for granted.  A shopping trip.  A local museum that’s not as grand as the Louvre or the Prado.  Bragging rights to how far we've been and sights that eclipse the local venues.

For me, living and traveling in Germany is different.  I don’t feel the need to go far. Maybe it’s because I’m an American and everything is new. A fest that’s been going on for centuries is a fresh flower in my traveling garden.  It may be only an hour away, but it’s an adventure.  Which brings me to the village of Sankt Martin and their yearly festival honoring the saint.

A lovely old town.  Solid stone buildings.  Flowers decorating every window ledge. Cobblestone streets. Sights that make your camera click every few paces.  Streets clogged with smiling people and baby strollers, the scent of roasting chestnuts and grilled Bratwürst permeating the air.  Vintners, with doors thrown wide, serving half liters of their best, at prices less than you’d pay for a small glass of vin ordinaire in the States.  But, all is not just Brats and street food.  Wide doors of old hewn oak open to sprawling arrays of foods, from potato dumplings to wild boar goulash and fried schnitzel and heaps of vinegary potato salad.

But, it’s not just a festival of plentiful food and drink.  There’s a deeper reason the town opens up every year and with a name with ‘saint’ in front of it, of course it has its roots in the Catholic faith.  Germans are not ashamed their open faith may offend. No prohibitions on whole towns celebrating this saint or that.

But, now, let’s get more specific.

Martin was a Roman soldier who ripped his cloak in half to share with a beggar during a snowstorm. While he slept, he dreamt of Jesus and later became a bishop.  In the past, on 11 November, the tradition used to signify the end of the seeding of wheat and the killing of fatted cattle for  Martinmas beef.  Didn’t see any cattle being slaughtered, so it wasn’t the Christian version of Ramadan.  But, each year the celebration continues.

People flocked for the food and librations and at the local Catholic Church, riders came for the blessing of their horses.

Although the town of Sankt Martin carries his name, the celebration carries through many parts of Germany and France.

Of course for me, it’s always the people.  We sat at a long plank table to enjoy Würst und Schnitzel, potatoes in many forms, and luscious green salads, along with pint sized glasses of red wine.  Our table neighbors heard us speaking English and thus ensued a long conversation of their son who lives in the U.S. and questions about what brings us to Germany.  My wife is a teacher and so was his wife, seated across from him.  Her husband and I sat in silence as teacher-talk took over.

Then it was time for another conversation with the folks on the other side of us and when they left, yet another conversation, all the while switching between German and English and a smattering of both when one of us lacked the vocab.

Often, when friends come from the States to visit, they have their hearts set on visiting the whole of Europe.  “How long do you plan to stay?” we ask.

“Oh, about a week and we want to go to London and Berlin and Rome and Madrid.”

“How about we drive an hour down the road?”

They look disappointed. But, wait until they taste the wine and meet some Germans and suddenly their thirst for travel blossoms and that photo op in a slew of big cities will never again quench their thirst.

Under the green lights of a Weinstube, here's a famous sweet and soft St Martin's pretzel.

Yes, the grapes are already harvested, but this is still wine country!

Airport Conversations.

Airport Conversations.

I like to meet people.  Interesting people. And when you fly across the Atlantic, you can meet plenty of them.  Easy to ask a question or two and instantly know if the conversation is going to flame on or just flicker and go out with a wisp of curling gray smoke.  Most of the time they flame on, bright and brilliant.  You meet people you never would have met and new worlds open up. Happens to me all the time. Today was no different.

I step into the bus to take us to the aircraft that will fly us to Paris.  Two other guys and I are pressed together like best buddies at a keg party.  A tall white guy, an Englishman in a t-shirt and leather jacket, and a black guy my size, but with biceps he can flex to crack walnuts.  The black guy is from Atlanta, but not really from Atlanta. Born in Florida. We talk football, which he played in high school.  We talk about linemen who are so big they won’t make it through the next ice age.

The Englishman smiles.  He likes football, he says.   That’s pretty much it for his part of the conversation.  Usually, with an English person, I go through the routine of what part of Britain are you from, etc.  But, neither the black guy nor I are ready to give up the pigskin just yet.

I lose them when we get stuffed on the flight, but an hour later when disembarking, I see the black guy again.  His name is Rickey and ex-Army.  I ask if I can buy him a beer.  Foolish question.

Near our gate, there’s a nice, bright, modern bar.  We order Fischer beers. The thin, well-dressed, very French looking bartender, brings us the icy bottles and hands us the drink menu, which is stylishly displayed on an iPad.  I consider an Armagnac to go with our beers, but sticker shock and an upcoming house payment make me settle for the bière.

Just in case you want  to try it, Fischer beer is French, from the Alsace region.  Light, fruity. A good beer for good conversation.

As with so many people I meet, Rickey has an interesting story to tell.  Ten years in the Army, then medically discharged after his arm met a bullet in Afghanistan.  “I’m lucky,” he says, “You wouldn’t believe what I saw over there.  I’d still be in uniform if it weren’t for this.” He’s wearing a dark t-shirt and shows me a scar that rides up from just above his right bicep and over his shoulder.

Rickey is in computer software solutions these days and it takes him all over the world, which he admits is tough on his families.  Yep, that’s plural.  His ex is German.  His current wife is Russian.  He has children from both marriages.  His eyes light up when he tells me about his kids and shows me photos.  His says it tore him up to have to leave again so soon, but his kids, even though they don’t like it, have gained confidence that he’ll be home again soon.  Talented kids.  Artistic. Musical. Multi-lingual. The things we must give up in the pursuit of cold, impersonal cash.

“So how many languages do you speak, Rickey?”

He laughs.  “My wives both speak English so well they might as well have been born in America.”

“So, what did you do in the Army?”

“C.I.D.  You know what that is?”

“Yep.  Investigators.  People I never wanted to meet while I was in the Air Force.”

He laughs again.  “Yeah, I know what you mean, but I tried to be more human. Give you an example.  In Germany there are lots of places placed Off Limits.  Some of them are night-spots. When I knew we’d be cruising the bars, looking for violators, I’d tell my buddies not to go to those places.  Sometimes they listened and sometimes not.  When they didn’t listen, I had to bring them in.  Not my fault.  I warned them.  I have to do my job.”

We finished our beers and loaded on the long flight to Atlanta.

But, that wasn't the only interesting conversation I had....no indeed...

On the flight over the big pond, my seat-mate spoke with a southern accent.  “Texas?” I asked.

He smiles. “Nope, South Carolina.”

Tony’s job also takes him around the world.  “I’m gone about two weeks a month,” he says. “I was just in Brazil.  Before you ask, I don’t speak Portuguese, only a little Spanish.  I go to so many places.  Almost all the former Soviets republics.  If it ends in Stan, I’ve been there.

Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan.”

“What takes you to all those places?”

“Forklifts and other heavy lifting equipment.”  He changes the subject.  “You ever been to India?”

“Never.”

“Interesting place.

“A friend of mine told me the Indians are thieves.”

He cracks a smile.  “Most of the world is basically corrupt.  Bribes are common everywhere.  Some of the countries are ruined by it.  Corruption is a cancer.”

Tony also offered advice about the U.S. and specifically drinking and driving.  “My son was weaving through a road heavily pocked with pot holes.  The cops pulled him over.  Thought he was drunk.  Asked him to blow in a tube.  He said no.”

“If he hadn’t been drinking, why’d he say no?”

“He gave the officer three reasons.  First, he said, ‘I have no idea if your equipment is properly calibrated. And secondly, a lot more things than alcohol can set a Breathalyzer off. Thirdly, if I fail the Breathalyzer, even if it’s bogus, it’s still a matter of record and can be used in court.’”

“So what happened?”

“They gave him a sobriety test….you know, walking a straight line. That sort of thing.”

“And he passed?”

“Sure!  He was clean and sober.”

Letting that information sink in, I had the flight attendant bring me another glass of Armagnac.  Unlike the bar in the Charles de Gaulle Airport, this one was free.

On to Cinque Terre, Part I

If you’re flying Cheap Air, vacation doesn’t start until you reach your destination. Cramped. Petty. Infuriating. They pat you gently with a pittance for airfare, then give you a saber thrust to the wallet for check-in, luggage and seatbelts.  Ok, I exaggerate about the seatbelts.  But the safety card on the back of the seat in front of you reads, “In case of emergency, please have your credit card ready.”

I’m reminded of the retail quip:  Quality, Service, Price, pick any two.  With Cheap Air, you only get one pick and it doesn’t begin with Q or S.

The vacation roars off when we leave Pisa Airport behind and step out into the blazing sunshine.  Waiting for us is Danni, our dapper, dark haired Italian chauffeur, attired in a lightweight gray suit, with a smile as broad and bright as a morning sunrise.  On our lengthy Mercedes ride from Pisa to Monterosso, Danni captures us with a running commentary about Cinque Terre and personal glimpses into Italian family life.  “My momma loves to cook and now she tells me I shouldn’t eat so much!  Momma Mia!” He pats his stomach and waves his hands. The rest of us are staring at the road.

We're headed to Cinque Terre, a lovely spot along the Italian Riviera.  Cinque Terre means five lands and in fact is five villages: Riomaggiore, Manarola, Cornelia, Vernazza, and Monterosso.  The area is on the UNESCO World Heritage list.

The white mountains of Carrara marble flash by as we fly with desperate speed down the Autopista.  Ignoring our white knuckles and terrified stares, Danni enthralls us with things to do and see.  I ask about the economic situation in Italy.  ‘Momma Mia!”, plus more hand waving, thankfully without screeching brakes and ripping metal.  Danni lives a charmed life and we’re grateful.

 

Note the green-silver olive trees

Ever been on twists and turns, up and down mountains, on a steep road suited for donkeys and skateboards?  Ever faced a determined wide bus when you’re staring down a cliff that drops off into the steep, rocky infinite? Sporty.  Engaging.  Didn’t know I could hold my breath that long.  Anything else I notice?  Besides the white knuckles and blood dripping from my lower lip? Olive trees.  Miles of stumpy trees with green and silvered leaves.  Speckles of tiny communities of three or four stone houses reclaimed years ago from the rugged landscape. 

We’re riding a time machine back into the charming Italy of the 1950s and it gets better from there.

Cinque Terre is a marvelous necklace of jeweled towns strewn across green mountains and the rocky coast of the startlingly blue Mediterranean.

Looking down from our splendid, hillside accommodations, I marvel at azure waters, placid harbor and sandy beaches.  Anchored sailboats ride the gently ruffled sea.  Families wander the long, curving beach, while the setting sun casts a magnificent orange glow over the forested mountains and towns.

Monterossa itself, the largest of the five towns, is a warm and friendly place.  In only a day, I catch more smiles than I’d seen in a year.  Makes me want to make Italy my home.

Our local taxi driver, Mateo, carries us downhill on an impossibly winding road to the city proper, then steers us to a wonderfully rustic seafood restaurant that we will visit more than once, La Barcaccia.  Rustic yes, but the food stands out, as does our smiling, chatty waitress, Sabina.  A soft, blueberry flavored aperitif magically appears, accompanied by a plate of farinata, a skillet bread made from chickpea flour.

Farinata and blueberry infused white wine

RECIPE:  Mix a cup of chickpea flour with a pinch or two of salt.  Add a cup or so of water and mix well.  Continue to add enough cold water to make a thin soup.  Leave it for 30 minutes to allow the flour to absorb water. If it froths, scape off and discard the froth. After soaking, the gruel will still be fairly thin.  Dot in a few dry herbs, if you want. Pour portions of the batter into a hot, well-greased skillet as you would pancake batter. (Most recipes call for the dough to sit for as long as four hours, but I had great luck leaving it only 30 minutes.)

http://www.ristorantelabarcaccia5terre.it/ristorante-barcaccia-monterosso-home.asp

Succulent mussels in a light tomato broth

Then comes fresh fish, crispy calamari, Parma ham, greens with a bare sparkle of lemon and local olive oil. A local white wine salves the pain of being in this coastal paradise and having to face four days of exploring wonderful, sunny villages awash with friendly natives.  Momma Mia!

End of Part I