Highgate cemetery has more than 170,000 people in 53,000 graves and they put that fact right on the front page of their website like that is something to be proud of and not a really horrifying fact like are you just piling people in on top of each other, willy-nilly? That works out to be just over 3 people/grave, if I am understanding this/doing the math correctly (unlikely/I think so). What in the HECK.
Sunday here in London was a gorgeous day—mid-60s, lots of sunshine, and the Brits really turned out for it. I walked through a bunch of parks (Holland, Kensington, Hyde, St. James) and they were filled with people and dogs and—my heart, finally, at last—birds.
The first bird I saw was the one near this old man (he (the old man) was fine, that’s just how he was laying down to soak up maximum sun).
Angling around the old man, I tip-toed closer and closer to the bird, hoping not to scare it away, and when finally I crept up close enough? I realized it was a FAKE.
I walked away fuming because all I have seen on this trip so far are pigeons and while I do love a pigeon (I dare you to read through these citations without a) wondering who the hell was in charge of naming pigeons, and b) rethinking my personal levels of madness), I also enjoy a wider variety of bird.
I was so preoccupied with the fake/lack of real bird situation that I straight up walked right past Kensington Palace. I remember seeing a nice-ish looking building and making a joke to myself about how it was probably the KP garage, then I was back to muttering about birds and after a while I stopped at a map and realized nope, that was the palace. Don’t get me wrong, it would have made for a very fancy garage, but…maybe I had a bad angle on it?
However, that map ALSO showed me a big lake up ahead and as I raised my eyes to the horizon I saw plumes of white rising and falling in the distance and I knew, oh, yes, I knew exactly what that meant: BIRDS.
Some of the swans were really kind of terrifyingly big, like bigger than I think a swan should be, but they were all super healthy-looking and clearly not at all afraid of people so I could get up close to them and watch them itch themselves which is what they spent a lot of time doing. Their feathers are like a layer of silk, absolutely stunning, and the thrill of seeing that made me mostly willing to put up with the seagulls but also come ON, seagulls. NO ONE likes you, not even other seagulls.
I felt a lot better after I saw those birds and then later there were more birds and did you know these parks are officially “stocked” with birds? I found these really weird-looking ducks, like they were legit ombre with super dramatic smoky eyes, wearing chokers, and while I was staring at them I noticed they’d each had a wing clipped. I can’t say whether the swans and the geese were also clipped—seems unlikely—but a VERY brief foray into British Birding Forums (never again!) suggests that a number of the birds I saw were likely “residents.” (Also I learned there is a bird called a Smew and whoever came up with Smew should have absolutely been put in charge of naming pigeons.)
In part of Hyde Park, near Marble Arch, there was a decent-sized crowd and some yelling, so naturally I was interested to find out what was going on. Turns out there’s a place called Speaker’s Corner where you can get on a stool and yell things; unclear as to whether you can BYOS or whether you have to wait for a turn. This is a good place to point out that in ‘MERICA you can yell things at people from wherever you want, no stool required, because FREEDOM; that said, I think the Brits may have in fact presaged the internet.
After missing Kensington Palace I went through a bunch more gardens and looked at a bunch more buildings. Buckingham Palace was also underwhelming, sorry not sorry have you SEEN how the Italians/French do this shit? Honestly, the Household Calvary Museum was more impressive than BP. If I were the queen I would just move there.
Trafalgar Square, on the other hand, totally brought it: it’s glorious and huge and there are giant statues of lions and it’s surrounded by more beautiful old buildings: good on you, Trafalgar Square.
Which, btw, a lot of the things I end up looking at in various places end up being war memorials of some kind of another, but London is taking that to an extreme—practically everything is a war memorial over here. I feel like that’s something the Brits might want to think about, you know, like dress for the job you want, not the job you have, that type of thing?
I hadn’t meant to end up as far as Trafalgar Square that day, it’s just that I got into this kind of “5 more minutes” situation because each time I thought I was ready to pack it in for the day, I’d see a sign for something, or the spires of Westminster Abbey would poke up on the horizon, and I couldn’t bring myself to be so close and yet turn away. This is why my croissant/crumpet consumption is not of concern to me: a) I don’t care they are delicious, and b) I am walking a LOT and I know that means my body needs delicious, delicious, buttery fuel.
Westminster Abbey was eye-bugging amazing (the HISTORY!); alas Big Ben and much of Parliament are covered in scaffolding until 2021. The money here is gigantic, a 20-pound note is like 5 x 8, and now I am dying to know if they actually make/buy over-sized wallets, there is no way these broadsheets would fit in a normal one. Part of my ambivalence about London might be the cost of the subway—it was almost eleven pounds/I have no idea how many dollars for me to get in and out of the city today. That said, their system is vastly superior to the MTA in every other way possible: signage is terrific, trains come quickly and actually move, and while their little train capsules are so wee they are also clean and no one appears to live in them and also did I mention that they seem to come all the time and I’ve not once heard “This train is being held in the station and will be moving shortly,” which is a terrible, TERRIBLE lie. Maybe you really do get what you pay for?
There aren’t enough scooters/motorcycles here; instead there are dozens and dozens of nerdy-looking people commuting by bicycle. I ordered a Fuller’s London Pride at a pub and I’m almost positive it is British Budweiser, but—get this!—I cannot access the Budweiser website from here. But this is how Fuller’s describes their London Pride: “A true icon of the capital, our award winning flagship ale creates the perfect balance between biscuity malt and pronounced hop flavors.” Props for using the non-word “biscuity,” of course, but I think we all know what they really mean: British Budweiser.
As I’ve been walking around, I feel like I can see in the architecture and the people the ways in which the Brits and the French wouldn’t always get along. The French are definitely the cool kids at the party—they’re more stylish, they’re hanging out on the balcony drinking wine and smoking and murmuring at each other. Everything is elegant graceful lines, beautifully spaced and posed. England is all squares and rectangles and red-faced super pale people drinking beer in ill-fitting pants. England is the guy talking maybe a little too loud, gut straining his polo shirt as he tells stories about times he played a sport. France is beautifully cut slim-fit suits—my goodness, French men in suits (and all French people in scarves)—and a careless insouciance. Britain is people in a park taking pictures of squirrels. A French person would never take a picture of a squirrel.
I know I’ve only been in London a few days, and I hate to disappoint a friend of mine who loves this city with a burning passion (“To tire of London,” he quoted at me, “is to tire of life”), but….I think we all know where this is going: much respect and admiration and all that, but…this ain’t my jam.
It’s not that I don’t like it here, it’s just that I think I’m more of a no-talking-to-people glass-of-wine-at-a-café kind of gal. I stopped at a pub tonight and it was lovely, all warm and cozy and dating back to 1435, and I honest-to-goodness heard two men convince a third to have one more for the road and he finally gave in, alright then, go on now, but just a half, and I loved that so much, but…it reminded me of a time I was in Dublin, by myself, and I went into a pub and got a Guinness and prepared to read whatever I was reading. I wasn’t there five minutes before some people came over, surely you’re not here alone, are ya? When I said I was, they were bowled over and then recovered, well, you must join us then! But I did not want to join them. I wanted to enjoy the atmosphere but not actually participate in it, and boy howdy these Irish people had a real hard time with that. I finally left because two more groups of people extended the same invitation, and maybe they thought I was trying to be coy instead of, you know, actually meaning “No, thank you,” so in the end it was easier just to bug on out and head on home. London feels like that, without all the people trying to get me to join their company.
Some observations: street signs are handled kind of weirdly here. They’re on walls/buildings the way they are in other places, but they’re placed kind of low down and once in a while they’re a bit obscured. Not sure what road you’re on? Might want to check the hedge!
I went to a coffee shop called Aveda, which is not a spa but a coffee shop, and when I asked for a coffee the lady did the same thing they did to me all over NZ and Australia: she said, “What kind?” Here they follow up with “Cappuccino? Latte?” as opposed to down under where their only notion of coffee is the goddamn flat white, but still. You know what I want? Just a cup of coffee. Actual, honest-to-goodness coffee. And handing me these dumb packets of tiny cookies isn’t distracting me, people, I don't want a COOKIE. I want COOFFFFEEEEEE.
In better news, it turns out crumpets are delicious! They’re kind of like a wimpier, fluffier English muffin (wow, that connection JUST dawned on me)—they’re softer so they don’t crisp up as much as the EMs do, but they can hold their butter, that is for sure, and I’m quite pleased with them.
In conclusion, I’m not done with London yet. I’m going to see Hamilton tomorrow, because I could get a sub $200 ticket (not so much in NYC), and then I’m going to Highgate Cemetery on Wednesday for a tour, plus Hampstead Heath etc., and then of course I’m going to visit the Victoria & Albert Museum because TEXTILES, and the British Museum of History because DUH, so I am sure there will be many wonderful things that I will enjoy very much. I don’t dislike you, London, and I respect the fact that tea and beer is your thing…I just might be in the mood for something else.
PS But look at this beautiful (real!) bird!
PPS My friend Clint wrote me an explanation of the silly two-lock situation on my door and it turns to make perfect sense and I’m going to not spend any time thinking about who might be coming to kick my door in, I know this place is CCTV’ed to the gills but I swear I have only thought evil things, not actually done them. (Though I did take this lewd picture of a swan's butt.)
PPPS Speaking of my friend Clint, one time I went over to his place and I was like "Wow, what are you cooking," and he told me he had a crockpot going with some geese he'd shot earlier, and I still don't totally understand the expression "your goose is cooked," but FYI sometimes a cooked goose is just a cooked goose.
Sunday here in London was a gorgeous day—mid-60s, lots of sunshine, and the Brits really turned out for it. I walked through a bunch of parks (Holland, Kensington, Hyde, St. James) and they were filled with people and dogs and—my heart, finally, at last—birds.
The first bird I saw was the one near this old man (he (the old man) was fine, that’s just how he was laying down to soak up maximum sun).
Angling around the old man, I tip-toed closer and closer to the bird, hoping not to scare it away, and when finally I crept up close enough? I realized it was a FAKE.
I walked away fuming because all I have seen on this trip so far are pigeons and while I do love a pigeon (I dare you to read through these citations without a) wondering who the hell was in charge of naming pigeons, and b) rethinking my personal levels of madness), I also enjoy a wider variety of bird.
I was so preoccupied with the fake/lack of real bird situation that I straight up walked right past Kensington Palace. I remember seeing a nice-ish looking building and making a joke to myself about how it was probably the KP garage, then I was back to muttering about birds and after a while I stopped at a map and realized nope, that was the palace. Don’t get me wrong, it would have made for a very fancy garage, but…maybe I had a bad angle on it?
However, that map ALSO showed me a big lake up ahead and as I raised my eyes to the horizon I saw plumes of white rising and falling in the distance and I knew, oh, yes, I knew exactly what that meant: BIRDS.
Some of the swans were really kind of terrifyingly big, like bigger than I think a swan should be, but they were all super healthy-looking and clearly not at all afraid of people so I could get up close to them and watch them itch themselves which is what they spent a lot of time doing. Their feathers are like a layer of silk, absolutely stunning, and the thrill of seeing that made me mostly willing to put up with the seagulls but also come ON, seagulls. NO ONE likes you, not even other seagulls.
I felt a lot better after I saw those birds and then later there were more birds and did you know these parks are officially “stocked” with birds? I found these really weird-looking ducks, like they were legit ombre with super dramatic smoky eyes, wearing chokers, and while I was staring at them I noticed they’d each had a wing clipped. I can’t say whether the swans and the geese were also clipped—seems unlikely—but a VERY brief foray into British Birding Forums (never again!) suggests that a number of the birds I saw were likely “residents.” (Also I learned there is a bird called a Smew and whoever came up with Smew should have absolutely been put in charge of naming pigeons.)
In part of Hyde Park, near Marble Arch, there was a decent-sized crowd and some yelling, so naturally I was interested to find out what was going on. Turns out there’s a place called Speaker’s Corner where you can get on a stool and yell things; unclear as to whether you can BYOS or whether you have to wait for a turn. This is a good place to point out that in ‘MERICA you can yell things at people from wherever you want, no stool required, because FREEDOM; that said, I think the Brits may have in fact presaged the internet.
After missing Kensington Palace I went through a bunch more gardens and looked at a bunch more buildings. Buckingham Palace was also underwhelming, sorry not sorry have you SEEN how the Italians/French do this shit? Honestly, the Household Calvary Museum was more impressive than BP. If I were the queen I would just move there.
Trafalgar Square, on the other hand, totally brought it: it’s glorious and huge and there are giant statues of lions and it’s surrounded by more beautiful old buildings: good on you, Trafalgar Square.
Which, btw, a lot of the things I end up looking at in various places end up being war memorials of some kind of another, but London is taking that to an extreme—practically everything is a war memorial over here. I feel like that’s something the Brits might want to think about, you know, like dress for the job you want, not the job you have, that type of thing?
I hadn’t meant to end up as far as Trafalgar Square that day, it’s just that I got into this kind of “5 more minutes” situation because each time I thought I was ready to pack it in for the day, I’d see a sign for something, or the spires of Westminster Abbey would poke up on the horizon, and I couldn’t bring myself to be so close and yet turn away. This is why my croissant/crumpet consumption is not of concern to me: a) I don’t care they are delicious, and b) I am walking a LOT and I know that means my body needs delicious, delicious, buttery fuel.
Westminster Abbey was eye-bugging amazing (the HISTORY!); alas Big Ben and much of Parliament are covered in scaffolding until 2021. The money here is gigantic, a 20-pound note is like 5 x 8, and now I am dying to know if they actually make/buy over-sized wallets, there is no way these broadsheets would fit in a normal one. Part of my ambivalence about London might be the cost of the subway—it was almost eleven pounds/I have no idea how many dollars for me to get in and out of the city today. That said, their system is vastly superior to the MTA in every other way possible: signage is terrific, trains come quickly and actually move, and while their little train capsules are so wee they are also clean and no one appears to live in them and also did I mention that they seem to come all the time and I’ve not once heard “This train is being held in the station and will be moving shortly,” which is a terrible, TERRIBLE lie. Maybe you really do get what you pay for?
There aren’t enough scooters/motorcycles here; instead there are dozens and dozens of nerdy-looking people commuting by bicycle. I ordered a Fuller’s London Pride at a pub and I’m almost positive it is British Budweiser, but—get this!—I cannot access the Budweiser website from here. But this is how Fuller’s describes their London Pride: “A true icon of the capital, our award winning flagship ale creates the perfect balance between biscuity malt and pronounced hop flavors.” Props for using the non-word “biscuity,” of course, but I think we all know what they really mean: British Budweiser.
As I’ve been walking around, I feel like I can see in the architecture and the people the ways in which the Brits and the French wouldn’t always get along. The French are definitely the cool kids at the party—they’re more stylish, they’re hanging out on the balcony drinking wine and smoking and murmuring at each other. Everything is elegant graceful lines, beautifully spaced and posed. England is all squares and rectangles and red-faced super pale people drinking beer in ill-fitting pants. England is the guy talking maybe a little too loud, gut straining his polo shirt as he tells stories about times he played a sport. France is beautifully cut slim-fit suits—my goodness, French men in suits (and all French people in scarves)—and a careless insouciance. Britain is people in a park taking pictures of squirrels. A French person would never take a picture of a squirrel.
I know I’ve only been in London a few days, and I hate to disappoint a friend of mine who loves this city with a burning passion (“To tire of London,” he quoted at me, “is to tire of life”), but….I think we all know where this is going: much respect and admiration and all that, but…this ain’t my jam.
It’s not that I don’t like it here, it’s just that I think I’m more of a no-talking-to-people glass-of-wine-at-a-café kind of gal. I stopped at a pub tonight and it was lovely, all warm and cozy and dating back to 1435, and I honest-to-goodness heard two men convince a third to have one more for the road and he finally gave in, alright then, go on now, but just a half, and I loved that so much, but…it reminded me of a time I was in Dublin, by myself, and I went into a pub and got a Guinness and prepared to read whatever I was reading. I wasn’t there five minutes before some people came over, surely you’re not here alone, are ya? When I said I was, they were bowled over and then recovered, well, you must join us then! But I did not want to join them. I wanted to enjoy the atmosphere but not actually participate in it, and boy howdy these Irish people had a real hard time with that. I finally left because two more groups of people extended the same invitation, and maybe they thought I was trying to be coy instead of, you know, actually meaning “No, thank you,” so in the end it was easier just to bug on out and head on home. London feels like that, without all the people trying to get me to join their company.
Some observations: street signs are handled kind of weirdly here. They’re on walls/buildings the way they are in other places, but they’re placed kind of low down and once in a while they’re a bit obscured. Not sure what road you’re on? Might want to check the hedge!
I went to a coffee shop called Aveda, which is not a spa but a coffee shop, and when I asked for a coffee the lady did the same thing they did to me all over NZ and Australia: she said, “What kind?” Here they follow up with “Cappuccino? Latte?” as opposed to down under where their only notion of coffee is the goddamn flat white, but still. You know what I want? Just a cup of coffee. Actual, honest-to-goodness coffee. And handing me these dumb packets of tiny cookies isn’t distracting me, people, I don't want a COOKIE. I want COOFFFFEEEEEE.
In better news, it turns out crumpets are delicious! They’re kind of like a wimpier, fluffier English muffin (wow, that connection JUST dawned on me)—they’re softer so they don’t crisp up as much as the EMs do, but they can hold their butter, that is for sure, and I’m quite pleased with them.
In conclusion, I’m not done with London yet. I’m going to see Hamilton tomorrow, because I could get a sub $200 ticket (not so much in NYC), and then I’m going to Highgate Cemetery on Wednesday for a tour, plus Hampstead Heath etc., and then of course I’m going to visit the Victoria & Albert Museum because TEXTILES, and the British Museum of History because DUH, so I am sure there will be many wonderful things that I will enjoy very much. I don’t dislike you, London, and I respect the fact that tea and beer is your thing…I just might be in the mood for something else.
PS But look at this beautiful (real!) bird!
PPS My friend Clint wrote me an explanation of the silly two-lock situation on my door and it turns to make perfect sense and I’m going to not spend any time thinking about who might be coming to kick my door in, I know this place is CCTV’ed to the gills but I swear I have only thought evil things, not actually done them. (Though I did take this lewd picture of a swan's butt.)
PPPS Speaking of my friend Clint, one time I went over to his place and I was like "Wow, what are you cooking," and he told me he had a crockpot going with some geese he'd shot earlier, and I still don't totally understand the expression "your goose is cooked," but FYI sometimes a cooked goose is just a cooked goose.
But you can also figure there are a good portion of dead people lying solo which means the ones who are stacked up are likely more like 5 (or more?!) to a grave ⚰️
ReplyDeleteI’m very excited to hear more after the tour. Do also look for more real birds whilst you are there.
i am extremely concerned about this grave situation and will report back for sure. in the meantime, today i am going to see some RAVENS who live at the Tower of London and that whole situation seems very much my kind of thing.
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