Days 22, 23 & 24: Feels Like Home to Me

DAY 22

So I arrive in London and almost immediately have the sensation of being in Melbourne. At first I can’t figure out why, but it soon hits me that I’m hearing accents and languages from all over the world, and am especially aware of the presence of migrants and refugees. Coming from the relative monoculturalism of Taipei, and the well-established cultural blend of Paris (where the influence of a small number of foreign cultures, such as German and Moroccan, is tangible, and the black population seems so integrated into the mainstream), it was comforting to find a place where the outsiders were the insiders. I would never have guessed it would be that that would make me feel at home.

After an easy two-hour flight from Nice airport (where it only took me an hour to figure out where to drop off my car), I found my way through Heathrow and the underground without any problem to my B&B in Shepherd’s Bush. No sooner had I knocked on the door than I heard a voice holler from a distance down the street, ‘Hallo?’

My host, Roger, had not written down my booking and was not expecting me. He was just returning from his grocery shopping, and his timing could not have been better. I reassured him that I had the documentation to prove I had booked and set about finding it in my suitcase, only to realise I had left it on a bench at Heathrow. Of course, explaining this to him made me feel like the world’s worst liar, even though I was telling the whole truth. Fortunately, he called the agency and they confirmed my booking.

We chatted briefly and he told me the rules. This being my first stay in a B&B, I knew it was going to be a little different to a regular hotel, but so far the differences have only been positive. Roger is a terrific host. He loves a chat – in fact, he spends much of his time on the phone, gossiping and cackling in his thick Birmingham accent – but knows when to give you space. The breakfast itself is terrific, and my first four nights were in a room far bigger than I paid for, simply because it was unoccupied. The house is decorated with all manner of Britonalia (is there a word for that?) and is only a short walk from shops and two tube stations. The only drawback is the lack of wifi, but it’s a short walk to Starbucks (as it is from pretty much any point in London).

I spent the afternoon walking around Shepherd’s Bush, which is apparently heavily populated with Australians, but I could see people all around the world. I could also see fried chicken outlets everywhere. Everywhere. I counted seven on two blocks of Uxbridge Road. I joined the local library and grabbed some dinner at a Nepalese restaurant, which was pleasingly empty. I spent the meal being circled by waiting staff who were eager to ensure I was enjoying myself, but made me incredibly self-conscious in the process. When I told Roger that’s where I had eaten, he told me he had never seen anyone eating in there and wondered how they stayed in business. I didn’t mind. I’d had an enjoyable meal and went to sleep satisfied.

DAY 23

I was excited about Friday. I had planned to visit the Victoria and Albert Museum and was to catch up with my stepbrother, Michael, and his friends for dinner. I was really looking forward to seeing a familiar face.

The V&A interested me more than any other museum I had visited so far. Its collection of art, antiquities and artifacts from all over the world and from many periods appealed to my childish desire for variety. And the great thing about it was that, while its collection held much historical significance and interest, this was matched by its beauty and aesthetic appeal. In one room you could look at tiles from Iran with the most absorbing aquamarines, and in the next a shelf full of intriguing Japanese netsuke, or the most dazzling cloisonné, and a Rodin bronze in the next.

Among my favourites was a plaster cast of the overwhelmingly large (at nearly three storeys high) and intricate Puerta de la Gloria (original by Mateo, cast by Brucciani) featuring Biblical scenes. It somehow brought the Bible alive for me in a way that few other works (including films) have. Though these rooms featured only plaster casts it was still satisfying to experience them at full-size.

The Museum’s theatre and performance display was also impressive, full of costumes, set dioramas and paraphernalia from British film and theatre. An excellent collection of photographs by Simon Annand, entitled ‘The Half’, gave brief glimpses into the actor’s mindset backstage thirty minutes before going on stage. Though an unashamedly populist part of the V&A collection, it was interesting to see photographs of some of my favourite actors, often in the early stages of their careers, sweating it out before their shows. (Unfortunately, though, no Brenda Blethyn.)

I headed out to meet Michael, but my train was stopped abruptly six stations from my destination. I made the walk from Edgware Road Station to the Barbican in just over two hours, slowly at first then quickening as I realised how long it was gong to take. Though I’m sure I could have taken a faster route, I never got more than 50 metres lost and was only 15 minutes late meeting Michael.

It was great to see him. I was totally excited by the prospect of the evening ahead, and to be spending it with some familiar faces. I took advantage by talking at a fast clip about my experiences in Paris and Taipei, only occasionally making a concerted effort to let someone else speak. Combined with the two beers (equivalent to four Australian pots) that followed at the Lights in Shoreditch, it made me verbose to the point of vulgarity, and I think the impression I made on Michael’s very nice friends was of a manic alcoholic.

After nearly leaving my backpack (with laptop) under the table (with thanks to Michael), we headed out the restaurant: the Bootleg Banquet, which was not so much a restaurant as a pair of tables nicely set up next to an old industrial kitchen. I believe the young people call them ‘pop-up restaurants.’ We were handed glasses of delicious prosecco and slivers of melt-in-the-mouth prosciutto, probably the best I’ve had.

In the process of trying to get a group photo, a nice lady from Brisbane, Ava, offered to help and we ended up chatting at length. She joined our party of five, making us a neat six to fit at the table. There was some sort of strange bond between us, almost immediately; one of those things where you each feel like you’ve known the other forever. She had a sense of humour as warped as my own and was the only person I knew who could out-giggle me.

The food was fantastic, prepared in honour of the late Rose Gray, a pioneer of English fine dining and a mentor to the likes of Jamie Oliver and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. The courses basically went: cheese balls for entrée, guinea-fowl (my second time for the week!) for main, and chocolate cake for dessert, but that’s playing them down. Each dish had distinctive and pleasing combinations of flavours, without ever being over-the-top.

[Side note: Actually, this brings something to mind. I have noticed a preoccupation in the English cuisine world of trying to be as seemingly ‘simple’ as possible, where everything is pared back, supposedly, to first principles. This is reflected not only in the dishes served in places like Bootleg Banquet, but also in restaurant chains with names like ‘Eat.’ As far as I can tell, though, this attempt at being unpretentious is inherently pretentious. I mean, really: ‘Eat’? That’s just lazy.]

As dinner progressed, and we worked our way through the four bottles of wine we had brought, I began to get more and more sober. This may run contrary to what my fellow diners would say, but I know it to be true. It was hard not to sober up after drinking a glass of a pinot grigio one of our number had purchased that looked and tasted like deodorant. And Ava, unwilling to accept the fact that red wine was wasted on me, poured me a glass of which I could not ingest more than the merest few drops.

After dinner, we went our separate ways, but Ava insisted that I follow her to a series of bars (some more dreadful than others), which I did. What surprised me was how we kept getting asked to leave – not because of our behaviour (which was fine anyway), but because the bars were closing. We went from one to the next to the next, waiting for the time to run out and, at the last one, I danced, something I hadn’t done in some time. This was the sign that it was time to go home.

DAY 24

I woke up with only a slight hangover, had my breakfast and hopped on the train to meet Michael. We meet at London Bridge Station and strolled through the tourist crowds to Borough Market, a thriving and quite trendy street market with stalls from all over the country (and Continent?) selling fine foods. We picked up a coffee from Monmouth’s (where flat whites have just been added to the drinks list) and an award-winning hamburger with cured bacon and blue cheese.

We headed to the Tate Modern, passing Tower Bridge (lovely) and London Bridge (ugly) on our way. Initially skeptical about a museum of modern art (especially after a not-great experience at the Centre Georges Pompidou), I was surprised to find myself reacting quite strongly to the works on display, especially a room full of Gerhard Richter’s abstracts. Six huge canvases adorned the walls, bringing to mind Kandinsky’s words:

It is clear that the choice of object that is one of the elements in the harmony of form must be decided only by a corresponding vibration in the human soul.

I tell you, there were some vibrations going on when Richter made these paintings, and then again when I was looking at them. Much of the work on display followed suit, and a modern art skeptic was converted. Blame it on my youth.

Both a little tired and emotional, we had a quick look at St. Paul's, then resolved to go our separate ways and I had a short nap back at the B&B. 

In the evening I met up with a TravBuddy from Washington DC, Greg, who had been living in London for five years, working as an eco-warrior. We went to a very good Indian café in East London and chatted about my trip and 20^th Century minimalist composers. As with Jicky in Paris, I couldn’t help feeling a little intellectually and experientially inferior. Now only 27, Greg seemed to know everything, mainly because he had lived in most places and was interested in everything. I know this inferiority complex is something I have to overcome and I’m going to in time. All I have to do is get really intelligent and experienced. We grabbed a quick beer before I headed home, and arranged to meet up the next day to visit St John, a restaurant I was keen to visit. I was ready for a deep sleep.