London and Portugal trip report
Jul 30th, 2009 | 01:22 AM
#1
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Joined: Jan 2003
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London and Portugal trip report
When I asked my husband Alan some months ago whether he wanted to go away this summer, he said no. But some time around May, he said he would like to go to London to visit family there. And I said maybe we should take advantage of being in Europe and spend a week in Portugal, which we had been considering since our trip there two years ago. We had spent two nights in the Alentejo and thought that was too short to see all the things we wanted to see. We had hoped to return during spring break but two spring breaks had come and gone since then. So we decided to combine the visit in London with a week in Portugal, and on July 7 we flew to London from Boston.
The last time we visited London was four years ago. We arrived at Heathrow airport on July 7, 2005 at 8:30 in the morning. As we headed into London with the car service we had been lucky enough to reserve in advance, we listened to the radio. We learned the entire London transportation network was shut down and heard the unfolding of the events of the morning as the news reporters were just figuring out what had happened. When we finally reached our apartment, it was clear that there had been terrorists and bombs in the tube and on the bus.
It is impossible not to think about that time as we enter London again, but this is a very different arrival. The driver from www.justairports.com meets us in the terminal, and we have a smooth ride to the apartment we have rented in Notting Hill.
I found the apartment at http://www.aplacelikehome.co.uk/prop...t=propertylist. It is on the ground floor of a row house that has been converted to apartments. There is a large sitting room with a sofa and two chairs, as well as a desk with telephone and internet access. The owner must collect used books; there is an interesting library on the bookshelves. The kitchen is open to the living room and has a table and two chairs as well as a washer/dryer combination and a dishwasher. The bathroom opens both into the kitchen and into the corridor that leads to the bedroom. The bedroom has French doors opening onto a terrace in an enclosed private garden with fragrant honeysuckle and other flowers. This is very attractive and feels like quite a haven after the long, uncomfortable plane ride.
So I enjoy the view with my eyes closed for a while.
Eventually we go out to explore the neighborhood. There is a small garage next door (which is odd, because every other building on the short street is residential) and we ask the mechanic where to find a grocery store. He points us in the right direction but we don’t get very far. Around the corner we stop at the first pub we see, the Cock and Bottle. This is not the kind of place that would have that name in Provincetown, we remark. There are people sitting outside at picnic tables with small children. One of them makes a run for it. His father yells “no” and this is as effective as it usually is with two-year-old boys. The kid runs into the pub. As his father carries him out again, I comment to the dad, “Listens well.” The dad says, “Ran right up into the landlord’s arms.”
Alan has his first beer or two and we feel we have arrived. After a while we move on and in a few blocks we find the Sainsbury Local. We buy some provisions and then decide to stop for dinner at the Sahara Restaurant, 39 Hereford Road, off Westbourne Grove. There is an interesting selection of Moroccan food. I start with some steamed eggplant with pepper, cumin, coriander, ginger, paprika, garlic and olive oil, which is really good. We go on to order more good things and are quite happy.
Alan goes downstairs and comes back saying there are hookahs there. He asks the waitress about them. She looks startled and puzzled. “No hookahs”, she says. Alan says he’ll show her. “To smoke,” I say. “Oh, shisha,” she says, looking relieved. “You thought he meant something else,” I offer. “Yes.”
Subsequent research reveals that hookah is the Indian word and shisha the Arab word for a water pipe. I have to explain to Alan how the waitress misunderstood him.
Walking back to the apartment, we pass a garage which has the words MAX HEADROOM printed above the entrance. I have one of those etymological “Aha!” moments. That’s where the title of the TV show came from; who knew? And pondering the English language and trying to remember to follow the directions painted on the intersections (Look left! Look right!), we make our way home.
The last time we visited London was four years ago. We arrived at Heathrow airport on July 7, 2005 at 8:30 in the morning. As we headed into London with the car service we had been lucky enough to reserve in advance, we listened to the radio. We learned the entire London transportation network was shut down and heard the unfolding of the events of the morning as the news reporters were just figuring out what had happened. When we finally reached our apartment, it was clear that there had been terrorists and bombs in the tube and on the bus.
It is impossible not to think about that time as we enter London again, but this is a very different arrival. The driver from www.justairports.com meets us in the terminal, and we have a smooth ride to the apartment we have rented in Notting Hill.
I found the apartment at http://www.aplacelikehome.co.uk/prop...t=propertylist. It is on the ground floor of a row house that has been converted to apartments. There is a large sitting room with a sofa and two chairs, as well as a desk with telephone and internet access. The owner must collect used books; there is an interesting library on the bookshelves. The kitchen is open to the living room and has a table and two chairs as well as a washer/dryer combination and a dishwasher. The bathroom opens both into the kitchen and into the corridor that leads to the bedroom. The bedroom has French doors opening onto a terrace in an enclosed private garden with fragrant honeysuckle and other flowers. This is very attractive and feels like quite a haven after the long, uncomfortable plane ride.
So I enjoy the view with my eyes closed for a while.
Eventually we go out to explore the neighborhood. There is a small garage next door (which is odd, because every other building on the short street is residential) and we ask the mechanic where to find a grocery store. He points us in the right direction but we don’t get very far. Around the corner we stop at the first pub we see, the Cock and Bottle. This is not the kind of place that would have that name in Provincetown, we remark. There are people sitting outside at picnic tables with small children. One of them makes a run for it. His father yells “no” and this is as effective as it usually is with two-year-old boys. The kid runs into the pub. As his father carries him out again, I comment to the dad, “Listens well.” The dad says, “Ran right up into the landlord’s arms.”
Alan has his first beer or two and we feel we have arrived. After a while we move on and in a few blocks we find the Sainsbury Local. We buy some provisions and then decide to stop for dinner at the Sahara Restaurant, 39 Hereford Road, off Westbourne Grove. There is an interesting selection of Moroccan food. I start with some steamed eggplant with pepper, cumin, coriander, ginger, paprika, garlic and olive oil, which is really good. We go on to order more good things and are quite happy.
Alan goes downstairs and comes back saying there are hookahs there. He asks the waitress about them. She looks startled and puzzled. “No hookahs”, she says. Alan says he’ll show her. “To smoke,” I say. “Oh, shisha,” she says, looking relieved. “You thought he meant something else,” I offer. “Yes.”
Subsequent research reveals that hookah is the Indian word and shisha the Arab word for a water pipe. I have to explain to Alan how the waitress misunderstood him.
Walking back to the apartment, we pass a garage which has the words MAX HEADROOM printed above the entrance. I have one of those etymological “Aha!” moments. That’s where the title of the TV show came from; who knew? And pondering the English language and trying to remember to follow the directions painted on the intersections (Look left! Look right!), we make our way home.
Jul 30th, 2009 | 01:34 AM
#3
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Joined: Jan 2003
Posts: 15,646
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Photos from the UK portion of this trip are posted at http://www.kodakgallery.com/ShareLan...localeid=en_US.
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Jul 30th, 2009 | 09:52 AM
#10
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Thursday morning we take the bus to Borough Market. We pass through a sizable chunk of London in the process. It takes a very long time, but we are not in a hurry, and the changing scene is fascinating. At Paddington Station we pass a sign, “Humped Zebra Crossing”. I look as hard as I can, this time and on subsequent trips, but I never do see the elusive humped zebra.
The bus goes down Edgware Road. There are people wearing many forms of head coverings and body coverings. The shop signs are in Arabic and there is a fascinating array of restaurants and cafes. In front of many of the cafes there are people smoking shisha, watching the traffic go by.
Next the bus passes through the West End. Very, very slowly. Oxford Street is mobbed with shoppers and walkers and many, many buses. We pass Trafalgar Square, where a man in a gorilla suit is standing on a plinth waving to passersby. He is one of 2400 people who will have their hour of fame as part of a project running for one hundred days.
We arrive at the London Bridge Station and walk to Borough Market. We pass Southwark Cathedral, which is swarmed by children in school uniforms.
The market is filled with lovely things. We buy pies of several varieties to bring back to the apartment. We thought we bought too many, but we should have bought more. We go to Neal’s Yard Dairy, specializing in farm cheeses from the British Isles, in a building on a street adjacent to the market building. We feel we have entered a cheese museum. Huge rounds of cheese are aging on the shelves. A wooden barrel in the corner with water dripping into it has a sign: “Humidifier”. We taste samples with the expert assistance of a salesman, and we buy a selection to bring home. We stop at a fruit stand for cherries and raspberries.
We decide to select lunch from the market offerings and find a bench for a picnic. We are not the only ones doing this. Alan picks a fresh prawn wrap, and I buy the best toasted cheese sandwich in the world. I may never be able to eat a toasted cheese sandwich anywhere else again.
Loaded down with packages, we opt for a taxi back to the apartment. As I am wondering which direction to go in order to find one, a cab pulls up in front of our bench. I call out to the driver and we are on our way home. I take this as a good omen for the trip.
The driver talks to us about the thing he likes best in London- pie and mash. He waxes poetic about it. He tells us we must be sure to try some if we see it. Then, as we are passing Buckingham Palace, he points out that cars are being parked in an area that indicates something is going on inside. We see people getting out of the cars and lining up in front of the palace. I now know what to wear if I am ever invited to tea with the Queen- the biggest, oddest, pinkest hat I can find. Alan is impressed that people dressed like that who have invitations inside have to line up outside the door like common folk. He suggests we join them. I point out that we would stick out a bit. I forgot my big funny pink hat at home.
The bus goes down Edgware Road. There are people wearing many forms of head coverings and body coverings. The shop signs are in Arabic and there is a fascinating array of restaurants and cafes. In front of many of the cafes there are people smoking shisha, watching the traffic go by.
Next the bus passes through the West End. Very, very slowly. Oxford Street is mobbed with shoppers and walkers and many, many buses. We pass Trafalgar Square, where a man in a gorilla suit is standing on a plinth waving to passersby. He is one of 2400 people who will have their hour of fame as part of a project running for one hundred days.
We arrive at the London Bridge Station and walk to Borough Market. We pass Southwark Cathedral, which is swarmed by children in school uniforms.
The market is filled with lovely things. We buy pies of several varieties to bring back to the apartment. We thought we bought too many, but we should have bought more. We go to Neal’s Yard Dairy, specializing in farm cheeses from the British Isles, in a building on a street adjacent to the market building. We feel we have entered a cheese museum. Huge rounds of cheese are aging on the shelves. A wooden barrel in the corner with water dripping into it has a sign: “Humidifier”. We taste samples with the expert assistance of a salesman, and we buy a selection to bring home. We stop at a fruit stand for cherries and raspberries.
We decide to select lunch from the market offerings and find a bench for a picnic. We are not the only ones doing this. Alan picks a fresh prawn wrap, and I buy the best toasted cheese sandwich in the world. I may never be able to eat a toasted cheese sandwich anywhere else again.
Loaded down with packages, we opt for a taxi back to the apartment. As I am wondering which direction to go in order to find one, a cab pulls up in front of our bench. I call out to the driver and we are on our way home. I take this as a good omen for the trip.
The driver talks to us about the thing he likes best in London- pie and mash. He waxes poetic about it. He tells us we must be sure to try some if we see it. Then, as we are passing Buckingham Palace, he points out that cars are being parked in an area that indicates something is going on inside. We see people getting out of the cars and lining up in front of the palace. I now know what to wear if I am ever invited to tea with the Queen- the biggest, oddest, pinkest hat I can find. Alan is impressed that people dressed like that who have invitations inside have to line up outside the door like common folk. He suggests we join them. I point out that we would stick out a bit. I forgot my big funny pink hat at home.
Jul 30th, 2009 | 10:58 AM
#12
Joined: Apr 2003
Posts: 17,268
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"Alan is impressed that people dressed like that who have invitations inside have to line up outside the door like common folk."
What makes you think they WEREN'T common folk? By about 2-2.30 ish, the queue for a summer garden party (most of whom run local Meals on Wheels) goes almost right back to Hyde Park Corner. Just about the only guests not queueing up are foreign diplomats.
What makes you think they WEREN'T common folk? By about 2-2.30 ish, the queue for a summer garden party (most of whom run local Meals on Wheels) goes almost right back to Hyde Park Corner. Just about the only guests not queueing up are foreign diplomats.
Jul 31st, 2009 | 04:16 AM
#15
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Joined: Jan 2003
Posts: 15,646
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Thursday evening we are having drinks and dinner with one of my imaginary friends. This is PatrickLondon from Fodor’s, and we have actually met before at a get-together in Paris. Which is fortunate, because the Covent Garden pub where we have agreed to meet is overflowing with people, and I hear Patrick calling out my name on the sidewalk. He has already located a less congested pub down the street, and we settle in on a sofa in the corner. I promptly spill my drink on Patrick’s trousers. (I wrote pants at first without thinking, then thought about the multicultural nature of my readership and didn’t want there to be any confusion on the subject.) Patrick is quite gracious about it.
Alan and I have been taking note of questions as they arise during the day. I keep saying, “We can ask Patrick about that tonight”, and at some point I start writing the questions down because it is increasingly likely that we will both say, “What was that question we were going to ask Patrick?” and even that one of us (I won’t say which one) will say, “What question?” So we chat about the names printed on the back of the buses (indicative of the companies that operate the various bus lines), the balance on our oyster cards (shown on the machine as you pass the card in front of it), and the minimum wage (didn’t write down the answer, so can’t report on it).
Dinner follows at Sofra, a Turkish restaurant at 36 Tavistock Street in Covent Garden. I really enjoy this, especially an aubergine salad which is very smoky, just the way I like it. I’m a sucker for eggplant in just about any form though. For dessert I order apricots filled with almonds and cream and dipped in ground pistachio. When it arrives, all three of us in unison bend our heads to the plate and stare at it, as the presentation is very different from what we expected. Never seen anything quite like it before. I like it, but I am pretty much a sucker for apricots in any form also.
The bus ride home takes slightly less time than the daytime trip, but there is still plenty of activity on the streets. As we pass Paddington Station, I hope for a glimpse of the humped zebra (maybe they are nocturnal). Alas, no such luck.
Alan and I have been taking note of questions as they arise during the day. I keep saying, “We can ask Patrick about that tonight”, and at some point I start writing the questions down because it is increasingly likely that we will both say, “What was that question we were going to ask Patrick?” and even that one of us (I won’t say which one) will say, “What question?” So we chat about the names printed on the back of the buses (indicative of the companies that operate the various bus lines), the balance on our oyster cards (shown on the machine as you pass the card in front of it), and the minimum wage (didn’t write down the answer, so can’t report on it).
Dinner follows at Sofra, a Turkish restaurant at 36 Tavistock Street in Covent Garden. I really enjoy this, especially an aubergine salad which is very smoky, just the way I like it. I’m a sucker for eggplant in just about any form though. For dessert I order apricots filled with almonds and cream and dipped in ground pistachio. When it arrives, all three of us in unison bend our heads to the plate and stare at it, as the presentation is very different from what we expected. Never seen anything quite like it before. I like it, but I am pretty much a sucker for apricots in any form also.
The bus ride home takes slightly less time than the daytime trip, but there is still plenty of activity on the streets. As we pass Paddington Station, I hope for a glimpse of the humped zebra (maybe they are nocturnal). Alas, no such luck.
Jul 31st, 2009 | 06:40 AM
#17
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Joined: Jan 2003
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On Friday we take a day trip. I have been having discussions with Fodor’s poster FlannerUK about doing a house swap, and we are going to his Cotswold home for lunch and to meet the Flanner pooch to see if he (the pooch) approves of us as house guests. This is a great treat. Flanner and pooch meet us at the train station and we walk through the village, stop in the church for an informative talk, and make our way through the churchyard and down the flower-lined lane to Flanner’s house. We meet Mrs. F and enjoy a terrific lunch in the garden. It is a very nice day. In fact, the weather mostly cooperates all week, despite sad gray rainy pictures on the weather forecast which I check on line daily at the BBC website.
After a lunch filled with lively conversation, Flanner drives us to Oxford for a quick look around. I have always been curious about Oxford, partially because I went to college at a university that was said to be filled with architectural references to the Oxford quadrangles. I do recognize one or two things, but I totally miss that the dining hall at Christ Church College was the model for a dining hall where I had the occasional lunch forty years ago. It is more generally known as the Hogwarts dining hall, and my daughter recognizes it right away when I show her the picture at home.
Flanner is an excellent guide. We duck in and out of various nooks and crannies as he fast-talks his way past the little men in bowler hats guarding the entrances. (“Closing already? We’ll just be a minute, thank you so much.”) I am afraid I am unable to absorb so much information at once, so I wander about taking photos while Alan gets the full benefit of the tour. We take a look at the Christ Church Cathedral, which is closed for a choir rehearsal, but we see that Evensong is scheduled in an hour, so we decide to attend the service.
I have never attended Evensong and this is a wonderful introduction. There is a visiting choir from Australia singing beautifully. It is educational for me in several unexpected ways. I now understand, for instance, why the pianist in my chamber group, who also plays organ at an Episcopal church in Massachusetts, has to fight a primal urge to pause every time she comes to a repeat sign. This is apparently how one sings hymns.
We take the train back to London from Oxford after a wonderfully satisfying day.
After a lunch filled with lively conversation, Flanner drives us to Oxford for a quick look around. I have always been curious about Oxford, partially because I went to college at a university that was said to be filled with architectural references to the Oxford quadrangles. I do recognize one or two things, but I totally miss that the dining hall at Christ Church College was the model for a dining hall where I had the occasional lunch forty years ago. It is more generally known as the Hogwarts dining hall, and my daughter recognizes it right away when I show her the picture at home.
Flanner is an excellent guide. We duck in and out of various nooks and crannies as he fast-talks his way past the little men in bowler hats guarding the entrances. (“Closing already? We’ll just be a minute, thank you so much.”) I am afraid I am unable to absorb so much information at once, so I wander about taking photos while Alan gets the full benefit of the tour. We take a look at the Christ Church Cathedral, which is closed for a choir rehearsal, but we see that Evensong is scheduled in an hour, so we decide to attend the service.
I have never attended Evensong and this is a wonderful introduction. There is a visiting choir from Australia singing beautifully. It is educational for me in several unexpected ways. I now understand, for instance, why the pianist in my chamber group, who also plays organ at an Episcopal church in Massachusetts, has to fight a primal urge to pause every time she comes to a repeat sign. This is apparently how one sings hymns.
We take the train back to London from Oxford after a wonderfully satisfying day.
