Looking out over London and the rainbow stretching across
the eastern half of the horizon, I felt surprisingly happy as the buildings
grew bigger and bigger as the plane landed after the 11-hour flight. Stepping off the plane, I dreaded the 14
hours ahead of me. It’s one thing to
travel for an extended period of time, but simply waiting around for that long
is some sort of mind torture. After
missing my plane in Des Moines (due to a flight schedule change I was unaware
of) I was forced to adapt to this new itinerary including a 5-hour layover in
Chicago and this layover in London.
People told me getting out and back into the airport between
international flights was a hassle, so I had decided to just wait in the
airport. The wall of screens displaying
what flights were leaving from which gates in which terminals now sprawled out
in front of me. The latest posted flight
would depart three hours before mine.
Shortly after my head dropped, a soft English voice asked if I needed help. I turned to look into the large doe-eyes of a
young, attractive Indian woman. Things
seemed better all of the sudden. I
explained my situation and she assured me it wasn’t difficult to get out of the
airport, and my checked bag would continue as planned. I thanked her and moved my feet toward
customs.
After my passport was stamped, my money exchanged and my
bladder emptied, I started asking around about the best means to travel to the
city. A small bar in my university town
holds the name London Underground, and I was happy to hear the Underground
offered the best travel for the price. I
bought my ticket and headed down two escalators to the station.
A train of cars pulled up to the station on the minute
posted on the schedule (a person grows accustomed to this in the States, but
you learn a whole new appreciation for punctuality living at the whims of
public transportation in Mozambique). The
train made several stops over the next hour, both above and below ground, and I
took a closer look out across London for the first time. The buildings our car passed were compact and
almost always stood within a meter or two of, if not attached to, at least one
other building. Yet, green blazed
amongst the concrete on many of the building and the occasional park popped up
as the train passed. When the train
stopped at Piccadilly Circus, I stepped into the underground station and made
my way up the steps to the street.
After quickly consulting a map, my feet took me a block to
the east and onto the pathways of Hyde Park.
As I made my way through the green grass and bald trees, I noticed the
people jogging, the pets running around, the squirrels climbing up trees, and
perhaps my favorite part, no trash on the ground. The park laid wide open around me and I tried
to take in as much as possible as I crossed, but awaiting me on the far side of
the park was the site I had come to this park for: Buckingham Palace.
Ornate carvings in marble and limestone stood everywhere
around the square, along with statues carved of the same stone or molded from
gold. The palace itself faced the square
with a regal aura, the architecture reminding me of some of the old buildings
at Iowa State. After a short time and a
few pictures, I made my way through another park with a pond and plethora of
birds of varying species. Also, I saw a
man feeding squirrels who would climb his legs and take peanuts from his
hands. From the park, I passed to the
square viewing Parliament and listened as Big Ben sounded off twelve tolls for
the noon hour. I crossed the Tames and
strolled the southern bank past the Eye of London before crossing back over to
the north side almost a mile from Parliament.
Then, I decided I should think about returning to the
airport, but before I headed back, I wanted to find a place to get a plate of
fish and chips and a couple pints. What
sort of tourist would I be if I didn’t get fish and chips in London,
England? The search led me up and down a
few streets, which only promised expensive dining, until eventually I spotted a
somewhat darker alley.
As I passed by the shops that lined the snugger, darker
alley and drew closer to the light on the farther side, I started to give up
hope, when I looked through a large window into a darker room. Next to the bar in that dark room, a pale,
attractive face looked back at me. After
staring for a second, I registered the face as belonging to a female bartender
and the room as a pub. I entered the door
promptly.
Established in 1777, Hall & Woodhouse was a small pub
with small furniture too, which seemed to add character and space to the
room. The lighting was dark, but calming. Dark wood made the entirety of the structure
with the exception of a few brass fittings and the glass windows, and black and
white pictures covered the walls. The
bartender had dark brown hair and was dressed in black from head to foot, which
explains why I only saw her face from the alley.
“Do
you serve food?”
“You can take a
look at our menu.”
“I’ll have a
seat and a Guinness, then.”
She guided me to a short stool next
to a short table in a corner and turned to pour my Guinness. While the front of her outfit was completely
black, the back of her long-sleeved shirt opened to show her back. Amidst the ubiquitous subtlety of the bar,
the sudden shock almost made me dizzy, and I quickly seated myself. When Sam brought my pint, I ordered the cod
and chips, started writing about everything I saw in London, and heard noises
from the next room. A doorway just a
foot away from me led to a small compartment, perfect for a group of friends,
called “The Snug”. The sounds alluded to
a couple who were trying to make good on the name of the room they occupied.
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