Three Weeks in England

The Third Week

With our visit to Yorkshire completed, we got on the train at York and headed back to London. It was a noisy trip, as a group of four people two rows in front of us had been drinking and were very loud, oblivious to the rest of the people in the crowded train car. Vere and I both put in earplugs and watched the scenery go by as we said goodbye to Yorkshire. Then we read for the rest of the two hour train ride.

We disembarked at King’s Cross station, got a taxi, and went to our hotel, the Athena. We squeezed into the small room with twin beds on the ground floor, but we managed. That night, after listening to people above us move furniture around for two hours, we finally found some slumber.

Tuesday morning, we made our way downstairs to the dining room for a continental buffet breakfast. We immediately felt like tourists, as the room was full of people speaking German, the waitress had a heavy Russian accent, and the painter working in the hall was speaking Greek.

When we stepped outside, it was cold and misty. We decided to take the Underground to a street market. It seemed a lot for a ticket to go such a short distance along the Hammersmith line. We could have gotten a taxi or Uber for the same cost and with less work traversing all the stairs and long corridors. But we finally got to our platform and waited for the Underground. I was feeling a bit down. Everything seemed gray, brown, black, and grimy. Then a buxom woman with brown hair in a ponytail walked to the end of the bench we were on and sat down. She was carefully cradling a bunch of flowers. As she passed I could smell them. They were purple and pink stock, and all of a sudden, their fragrance made me smile. I was amazed with how the gloomy day could be broken by a sweet scent and a colorful floral bouquet. It was just what I needed.

Three stops later, we got off at Stamford Brook to search for the Portobello Vintage Market. Our tour book said it was open every day, but that turned out to not be true. There were a few stands selling food and clothes, but the vintage aspect, we found out from a seller, is only on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Since we were already there, we walked the length of it past crocheted baby socks, ladies night gowns, London cloth tote bags, and a falafel stand. After the last of the booths, we sat in a bakery with hot chocolate and pastries, and debated about what to do. We had thought to visit the nearby Kew Gardens, which was featuring spring cherry blossoms, bluebells, tulips, and magnolias, but it was fairly cold and misty, so we decided to wait for a better day.

Our final decision was to take a taxi all the way across town to the National Gallery. It was free that day, so the crowds were there, and it was the gallery’s 200th anniversary. We wove through as many of the vast rooms as we could in this top gallery of great artists. It would be impossible to show you all that we saw, but here are some: Bronzino’s An Allegory with Venus and Cupid, Jacob Tintoretto’s The Origin of the Milky Way, when Jupiter sought immortality for his illegitimate son Hercules, Carlo Crivelli’s The Annunciation with Saint Emidus, Joachim Wtewael’s The Judgement of Paris, Lucas Cranch the Elder’s Cupid complaining to Venus, Titian’s Diana and Actaeon, and his Diana and Callisto, William Blake’s Eve Tempted by the Serpent, Joseph Severn’s Where the Bee Sucks, There Suck I.

There was also: Vermeer’s A Young Woman Standing at a Virginal, Monet’s Bathers at La Grenouillère, Rubens’ Samson and Delilah, Rembrandt’s Self Portrait at Age 34, van Gogh’s Sunflowers, Holbein the Younger’s The Ambassadors, van Eyck’s The Arnolfini Portrait, Michelangelo’s The Entombment, Constable’s The Hay Wain, Raphael’s The Madonna of the Pinks, Caravaggio’s The Supper at Emmaus, Velázquez’ The Toilet of Venus, da Vinci’s The Virgin of the Rocks, and Botticelli’s Venus and Mars. Our hunger for fine art was met with a figurative feast for our eyes. After more than two hours we began to stagger from the sheer volume of visual stimulation.

Outside, we made a quick dash across the street to Bella Italia for a late lunch. The weather forcast had said no rain, so we hadn’t brought our brollies, but that weather report wasn’t true either. Vere started with mozzarella sticks, and then he had carbonara with chicken, and I had spinach and ricotta cannelloni. Afterward, I convinced Vere to head back to the Athena Hotel. I was tired from our long museum meanderings and wanted a break. In our taxi we had a long conversation with the driver about weather, California—he had been to Sacramento, British and American crime shows, troublesome US politics, and Brexit, with which he claimed he had not noticed much change.

When we returned to our room, we decided to stay in. So far on our trip we had not taken one day’s rest, and we decided today was it. Besides, it was raining outside, which would continue through the night into tomorrow morning. We worked on our laptops until we got hungry for dinner.

We found a Malaysian restaurant just three blocks away called the Satay House. We put on our jackets, grabbed our umbrellas, and faced the rain. Vere had satay chicken with coconut rice and peanut sauce. I wasn’t really hungry, but I was thirsty. I ordered a glass of mango juice and a glass of lychee juice that came with the fruit in the glass. I also had a dessert called Sagu Gula Melaka. It was tapioca in palm sugar and coconut milk. Then it was back to the room for the night.