I'm a blonde on a mission. As a result my London list is getting shorter and shorter. I had a really nice weekend, and though it was a lonely one due to all my (3 total) girlfriends being out of town, it gave me a chance to do exactly what I wanted to do.
Friday night was rainy and cold, and so I sought refuge from the weather in the famous Coronet Cinema in Notting Hill. The gorgeous little theatre originally opened in 1898 and after a rich history of important english theatre, it now functions as a picturehouse. It is well worn in a fantastic sort of way, with carpets frayed from footsteps of enthusiastic theatregoers and celebrities, and thick velvet curtains and seat covers faded from ruby to scarlet.
Popcorn in hand, I cozied into a plush velvet seat, and enjoyed every moment of the new Wes Anderson film, Moonrise Kingdom. I admit I am an unlikely fan of Wes Anderson's dry humor and flawed characters, but I found myself grinning from start to finish at this cute plot of a little orphaned boy and troubled girl who decide they are deeply in love and plan to run away together.
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| The Coronet Cinema |
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| Truly a must see |
Brighton reminded me of a creepy, English version of Cedar Point.
Vintage carnival rides were piled on top of each other on the long pier, stuffed between stands selling Fish n' Chips, ice cream, and fresh sugared donuts. Both the sky and sea were grey instead of blue, and rocky pebbles lined the shore where sand should have been. As I wandered around, spending £5 to ride the Turbo and another £5 on a milkshake, I found myself so sad for England that this is as close as they get to both a beach, and an amusement park. No wonder Disney World vacations are so popular!
Despite the fact that it was a bit creepy, it had a certain charm. I spent the rest of the day exploring the little town, and was shocked to find Vegan restaurants and shops full of funky art and screen-printed clothing. Delighted, I popped into the top rated cafe in town for a pumpkin and quinoa bake that I ate while browsing around assorted ceramic items in the flea market. It seems Brighton is the hipster hangout of England, and I appreciated the vibe that is world's away from the pomp and circumstance of London. When I was about ready to leave, the skies cleared up. So rather than head back to the train station as planned, I sat on a picnic bench on the "beach" and transported myself to West Egg for awhile.
Sunday I decided to stick around town and finally pay a visit to the Tower of London.
I was pleased to find it was not a tourist trap at all, but rather a fascinating old fortress complete with a jolly good tour guide - The London Beefeater!
Or more formally known as the Yeomen Warders of Her Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress and Members of the Sovereign's Body Guard of the Yeoman Guard Extraordinary.
They are the official guardians of the Tower of London and are responsible for looking after any prisoners at the Tower and safeguarding the British crown jewels.
However, since there are currently no prisoners or attempted crown jewel thieves, they give free hour-long tours of the tower. I can't speak for all the guards of the tower, but my guide was quite funny and made the tour rather amusing.
I learned that being a Beefeater is an enormous privilege. Application is only possible after servingin Her Majesty's army for a minimum of 22 years and achieving certain distinctions within that time.
But for the lucky few who get in, they actually live in lovely little flats within the tower compound, pay for nothing, and have their own doctor, chapel, and of course - pub.
The Beefeater's are not to be confused with the normal guards, who pace about guarding who knows what with rifles in those enormous furry hats. Sadly the Beefeater outfit is actually much goofier and feminine looking - but it's a small price to pay for flat in central London.
I got to see the Crown Jewels, the many suits of Armor from various former Kings of England, and the site where the private Scaffold was constructed for the be-heading of former head's of state. I.E. Anne Boleyn. Poor Anne was beheaded just a few steps from the Chapel she was married in 3 years before.
Also of note, apparently, are the Loos of the Tower of London. They seemed quite ordinary to me, but I couldn't help but notice the awards plastered every few feet on the walls.
I have to wonder, who is charged with the horrible task of judging the Loo of the Year Awards?
It turned out to be a genuinely gorgeous and sunny day, which must be taken advantage of on the rare occasion that it happens! So after spending several hours at the tower, I crossed Tower Bridge and explored St. Katherine's dock and the Butcher's Wharf. Realizing I was absolutely starving, I sat down at All Bar One and pretended to belong to an Italian family of 8 dining next to me so I won't be lonley. They could barely speak English, which I found charming as I overheard the littlest girl ask the waiter if it was called a "fork" or a "korf".
I've gotten over the fear of eating in restaurants alone, because one becomes sick of absolutely everything at Pret a Manger and EAT fairly quickly and longs to eat in a place where the cutlery is not plastic. I also cannot resist an outdoor table on a summer day. So I finished the last Chapter of Gatsby as I admired the view of Tower Bridge before me and soaked up sunshine for the first time since I returned from America.
I only find dining alone strange once my plate is cleared and I'm ready for the check.
When I first sit down, the prospect of the menu is distracting me too much to realize I'm alone.
"What will I order? Can I get that on the side? I wonder if they have good fries??" These thoughts are all running through my mind. When I've decided, ordered, changed my mind, and then re-ordered, I usually make a phone call if it's not rude given the setting, or pull a book from purse - like in today's case.
Once my food arrives my book is cast asside and my focus drawn to whatever is about to be savored. The smell, the plating, the texture. This period of joy last until the final crumb is consumed, and then the fun is over.
I have no one to chat to while I attempt to flag down the waitor and find myself drumming my fingertips on the table while I anxiously try to spot him and shout from afar, "check, please!"
Then instead of planting a kiss on Josh with an accompanying thank you, or concurring with a friend how delicious the whatever we ate was - I talk to myself, like an old loony person.
After indulging in far too much rosemary and sea salt bread that was warm from the oven, I took a 3 mile walk from the Wharf to Westminster Abbey before surrendering to the pains of my toes and hopping on the bus home to my flat. I like having time to take in the city by foot, In Rainbows serving as a soundtrack as I explore new streets and stop to window shop at positively every bakery I pass. I really need to start wearing proper walking shoes in lieu of my patent leather brogues, but I can't say I've ever been big on tennis shoes - unless they are pink.
As the weeks continue to pass here, I find I am not, as I feared - growing melancholy, but rather anxious. I want June to turn to July and July to August until it finally has become October and I am at Heathrow Airport for the last time, having a "goodbye London" tea in the fancy pub in the terminal - alone, of course. But when I do, I can assure you that when I've finished my scones and am anxiously searching for the waitor to shout "check, please," it will be among the most enthusiastic of my life.
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