We managed to drag ourselves out of bed in time for the hotel breakfast, and watched the news reports of a bomb found in Haymarket just south of Picadilly Circus. We looked up internet cafes in the phone book and set out to find the nearest one to reassure folks that we were okay, but found a construction site where the building should have been.
The morning's walk took us up Gosvenor Gardens to Hyde Park Corner, and down Rotten Row to the Alexandra Gate. At the Royal Albert Hall, robed students waited for the commencement ceremonies of the nearby art college.
At the V&A Museum, we cut through Fashion to get to Britain 1760-1900, where some kind of alarm went of periodically. We spent most of our time in the Ironworks gallery before I forced Greg to check out the plaster casts. In the shop, I bought a really cool but way too expensive purse, against Greg's better judgement; I also picked up some fliers for a neat program called Sing London, a vocal music festival being kicked off at the V&A later that night.
We walked up Old Brompton and got some neat sandwiches (corned beef and pickle for me, spicy falafel wrap for Greg) at the local Pret, then continued to the Harrod's flagship store, where we cruised the food halls and toy section, and bought sodas and souvenirs.
To Oxford Circus via Tube, since Greg had nothing to wear for the cruise's many formal nights. Well, technically not "nothing," but Greg in a jacket and tie with no shirt doesn't sound so great, especially over dinner. At the Moss Bros, he got "dress shirts for life" before his blood sugar crashed and we hit a nearby Border's for a scone. I took the opportunity to check out the small paper goods store inside the Border's, where I got more greeting cards by Edward Monkton, whose surreal cards we have displayed in the kitchen.
Our next stop was the British Library, which required a ride from Oxford Circus to King's Cross-St. Pancras during rush hour. As the train door closed between Greg and I, I was comforted by the fact that I knew where I was going and he had the maps. I caught the next train, got off at King's Cross-St. Pancras (noticing St. Pancras station is being converted to a 5-star hotel, condos, and a single 10 million pound penthouse), and walked the few blocks to the Library. No Greg. After a bit, I went back to the station, then back to the Library (checked out the gift shop, which carried Edward Monkton books—who knew?), back to the station...and eventually gave up.
Greg knew I had wanted to return to the V&A for the Sing London event, so I just went there after the Library closed. The museum's "Friday Late" program is the last Friday of every month, and features live music and a bar. There was a jazz trio playing in the rotunda; an a cappella group on the second floor balcony around the rotunda, being conducted from floor level; ethnic presentations in the India, Middle East, Japan, and China galleries; and an opera/art song ensemble in the sculpture gallery.
After a few hours, I phoned the hotel and asked for our room, but the call wasn't transferred correctly somehow, so I just gave up and returned to the hotel.
Greg's version: The way I see it, I got off at King's Cross/St. Pancras and figured Sarah would head to the "Way Out." I sat under the sign and watched about 5 trains arrive and empty with no sign of the new wife. Perhaps she'd passed me and I hadn't noticed? I took a walk around the station.
If you've never been there, King's Cross/St. Pancras is a pretty big station. I think 4 lines converge on that one station, and there are always people flooding into and out of the trains. So it was going to be hard to find her, even if she was there. Needless to say, I didn't find her. So I went back to the Victoria Line (the one I arrived on) and waited a few more trains.
Then I figured she hadn't been able to get on the train, and was waiting back at Oxford Circus. So I got on the Victoria Line South, which was wide open and not nearly as packed as it should have been. That's because the train was delayed due to something going on at one end of the line. So then I headed back up to the top of the station and talked to one of the policemen. He suggested I talk to an Underground worker, who told me to go back down and get on the Piccadilly Line. It would be a roundabout way to get there, but it might work. But when I saw how crowded the platform was for the Piccadilly Line, I balked.
So I went back to the Victoria Line and waited some more. Still no Sarah. So I went back up top again (finding a different top of the station this time!) and asked some of the staff to page Sarah at Oxford Circus. I got directed down to the control room, but got lost. So I went back to the Victoria Line and waited some more.
Still no Sarah. So I went back up again and asked again, and this time I actually got to the control room. The one person in the control room was very nice; he wrote down what he was supposed to do, and then tried to call Oxford Circus. He didn't have a number for him. So he called up to the top of the station, but they were too busy. Then he tried another number, but that one didn't work either. All this time, he was directing trains, and was starting to have some trouble; there was some sort of emergency-ish situation. Another customer came down to the control room and when I told him my predicament, he explained how to get to the V&A via the Kensington line. Then another Underground worked showed up and explained that they had to close the Victoria line due to overcrowding.
So I headed over to the Kensington line, just in time to find a group of Underground workers closing the gate that leads to the Kensington line. Now I had no reasonable way to get back to Oxford Circus or to the V&A. So I went back to the control room to beg the guy there to page Sarah at Oxford Circus. He apologized profusely, but explained he couldn't; since they had to close the Victoria Line, things were just crazy. He wanted to help, but simply couldn't.
I was desperate at this point: no map, no way to get to the V&A or Oxford Circus. So I left the station and got a cab without too much trouble. I told him to go to the New England Hotel in Victoria. He didn't know where it was, but he knew the general area we were heading. He was very chatty; I told him the story in bits and pieces of losing my wife, and he was sympathetic. He explained that he loves cab driving because he gets to go interesting places, and that his daughter is good at math but doesn't have much interest in being a mathematician. As we neared Victoria, I was able to remember some street names and some of the layout, so we got to the hotel without a problem. He had me guess where he was from: I guessed Ireland, and he said, "Close. I'm from Glasgow."
So at 6:30 I headed into the hotel, sat down, flipped on the telly, and starting solving Pirate Word-Doku.
I returned around 8:30, and we decided I must have just walked right past Greg when my train arrived at King's Cross. To celebrate our reunion, we went out to dinner at a nearby Balti House called Spicy World.
Ah, Spicy World. The place was packed, and we and another couple were led to a basement seating area; the others opted to leave. An odd trio of rowdy workmen came down, then two Scottish women, then three French 20-somethings who stomped off before their food arrived. A German couple was shown to the basement, and announced they'd wait for a table upstairs. After the workmen and the French folks left, the staff had an animated fight in the kitchen. The waitress apologized for the wait and refilled our diet Cokes for free, and we declared ourselves and the Scots to be The Nice Tables. The manager appeared with one of the sullen French people and demanded that their food be brought out to prove it was ready all along, and the French decided they would stay if they could move upstairs. Then the chef came out from the kitchen to make sure we were all happy, but only the nice tables were left to reassure him.
The food was excellent, particularly the keema naan. I gave the waitress a hug on the way out. She needed it.
Back at the hotel, we repacked the suitcases from scratch: what had been Cape and Honeymoon bags became His and Hers bags.
Pedometer count: 23,274
The morning's walk took us up Gosvenor Gardens to Hyde Park Corner, and down Rotten Row to the Alexandra Gate. At the Royal Albert Hall, robed students waited for the commencement ceremonies of the nearby art college.
At the V&A Museum, we cut through Fashion to get to Britain 1760-1900, where some kind of alarm went of periodically. We spent most of our time in the Ironworks gallery before I forced Greg to check out the plaster casts. In the shop, I bought a really cool but way too expensive purse, against Greg's better judgement; I also picked up some fliers for a neat program called Sing London, a vocal music festival being kicked off at the V&A later that night.
We walked up Old Brompton and got some neat sandwiches (corned beef and pickle for me, spicy falafel wrap for Greg) at the local Pret, then continued to the Harrod's flagship store, where we cruised the food halls and toy section, and bought sodas and souvenirs.
To Oxford Circus via Tube, since Greg had nothing to wear for the cruise's many formal nights. Well, technically not "nothing," but Greg in a jacket and tie with no shirt doesn't sound so great, especially over dinner. At the Moss Bros, he got "dress shirts for life" before his blood sugar crashed and we hit a nearby Border's for a scone. I took the opportunity to check out the small paper goods store inside the Border's, where I got more greeting cards by Edward Monkton, whose surreal cards we have displayed in the kitchen.
Our next stop was the British Library, which required a ride from Oxford Circus to King's Cross-St. Pancras during rush hour. As the train door closed between Greg and I, I was comforted by the fact that I knew where I was going and he had the maps. I caught the next train, got off at King's Cross-St. Pancras (noticing St. Pancras station is being converted to a 5-star hotel, condos, and a single 10 million pound penthouse), and walked the few blocks to the Library. No Greg. After a bit, I went back to the station, then back to the Library (checked out the gift shop, which carried Edward Monkton books—who knew?), back to the station...and eventually gave up.
Greg knew I had wanted to return to the V&A for the Sing London event, so I just went there after the Library closed. The museum's "Friday Late" program is the last Friday of every month, and features live music and a bar. There was a jazz trio playing in the rotunda; an a cappella group on the second floor balcony around the rotunda, being conducted from floor level; ethnic presentations in the India, Middle East, Japan, and China galleries; and an opera/art song ensemble in the sculpture gallery.
After a few hours, I phoned the hotel and asked for our room, but the call wasn't transferred correctly somehow, so I just gave up and returned to the hotel.
Greg's version: The way I see it, I got off at King's Cross/St. Pancras and figured Sarah would head to the "Way Out." I sat under the sign and watched about 5 trains arrive and empty with no sign of the new wife. Perhaps she'd passed me and I hadn't noticed? I took a walk around the station.
If you've never been there, King's Cross/St. Pancras is a pretty big station. I think 4 lines converge on that one station, and there are always people flooding into and out of the trains. So it was going to be hard to find her, even if she was there. Needless to say, I didn't find her. So I went back to the Victoria Line (the one I arrived on) and waited a few more trains.
Then I figured she hadn't been able to get on the train, and was waiting back at Oxford Circus. So I got on the Victoria Line South, which was wide open and not nearly as packed as it should have been. That's because the train was delayed due to something going on at one end of the line. So then I headed back up to the top of the station and talked to one of the policemen. He suggested I talk to an Underground worker, who told me to go back down and get on the Piccadilly Line. It would be a roundabout way to get there, but it might work. But when I saw how crowded the platform was for the Piccadilly Line, I balked.
So I went back to the Victoria Line and waited some more. Still no Sarah. So I went back up top again (finding a different top of the station this time!) and asked some of the staff to page Sarah at Oxford Circus. I got directed down to the control room, but got lost. So I went back to the Victoria Line and waited some more.
Still no Sarah. So I went back up again and asked again, and this time I actually got to the control room. The one person in the control room was very nice; he wrote down what he was supposed to do, and then tried to call Oxford Circus. He didn't have a number for him. So he called up to the top of the station, but they were too busy. Then he tried another number, but that one didn't work either. All this time, he was directing trains, and was starting to have some trouble; there was some sort of emergency-ish situation. Another customer came down to the control room and when I told him my predicament, he explained how to get to the V&A via the Kensington line. Then another Underground worked showed up and explained that they had to close the Victoria line due to overcrowding.
So I headed over to the Kensington line, just in time to find a group of Underground workers closing the gate that leads to the Kensington line. Now I had no reasonable way to get back to Oxford Circus or to the V&A. So I went back to the control room to beg the guy there to page Sarah at Oxford Circus. He apologized profusely, but explained he couldn't; since they had to close the Victoria Line, things were just crazy. He wanted to help, but simply couldn't.
I was desperate at this point: no map, no way to get to the V&A or Oxford Circus. So I left the station and got a cab without too much trouble. I told him to go to the New England Hotel in Victoria. He didn't know where it was, but he knew the general area we were heading. He was very chatty; I told him the story in bits and pieces of losing my wife, and he was sympathetic. He explained that he loves cab driving because he gets to go interesting places, and that his daughter is good at math but doesn't have much interest in being a mathematician. As we neared Victoria, I was able to remember some street names and some of the layout, so we got to the hotel without a problem. He had me guess where he was from: I guessed Ireland, and he said, "Close. I'm from Glasgow."
So at 6:30 I headed into the hotel, sat down, flipped on the telly, and starting solving Pirate Word-Doku.
I returned around 8:30, and we decided I must have just walked right past Greg when my train arrived at King's Cross. To celebrate our reunion, we went out to dinner at a nearby Balti House called Spicy World.
Ah, Spicy World. The place was packed, and we and another couple were led to a basement seating area; the others opted to leave. An odd trio of rowdy workmen came down, then two Scottish women, then three French 20-somethings who stomped off before their food arrived. A German couple was shown to the basement, and announced they'd wait for a table upstairs. After the workmen and the French folks left, the staff had an animated fight in the kitchen. The waitress apologized for the wait and refilled our diet Cokes for free, and we declared ourselves and the Scots to be The Nice Tables. The manager appeared with one of the sullen French people and demanded that their food be brought out to prove it was ready all along, and the French decided they would stay if they could move upstairs. Then the chef came out from the kitchen to make sure we were all happy, but only the nice tables were left to reassure him.
The food was excellent, particularly the keema naan. I gave the waitress a hug on the way out. She needed it.
Back at the hotel, we repacked the suitcases from scratch: what had been Cape and Honeymoon bags became His and Hers bags.
Pedometer count: 23,274
Labels: honeymoon
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