Prior to landing in London, I pictured myself hopping on big
red bus after big red bus, climbing to the top. With my amazing view, there was
a chance I’d spot the Queen, slipping out of Waitrose with a fresh batch of hot
cross buns tucked away in her stuffy old purse.
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| First London selfie: Trying hard to be inconspicuous. |
My plans changed shortly after landing at Heathrow. I hopped
on the London Underground and snapped my first selfie as a rider sitting across
from me smirked.
Bloody hell. Spot the
tourist.
She could smirk all she wanted. I put my phone away and
glimpsed the surprisingly unkempt yards that bordered the rail line. I don’t
know where “the wrong side of the tracks” came from. It seems to me that either
side—at least, immediately adjacent—is rather seedy in any city. But the trip was
lovely all the same.
After checking in at my hotel, I did board a double-decker.
One of those hop-on, hop-off tourist beasts that allows passengers smirk-free
snapping at whatever we like. Alas, the luster wore off shortly after I secured
a front window seat. Shockingly, a sizable splat of bird poop photobombed all
my pics. Worse, the bus sat idle more than it moved. Being a tour bus, the
route involved all of the busiest streets in central London. I abandoned the
tour several blocks from Westminster Abbey, certain that I could travel faster
afoot.
No more double-deckers.
And so I reverted to my new love: the Tube. I’m a geek when
it comes to mass transit. I suppose it goes back to my boyhood in Hamilton,
Ontario. Not long after outgrowing my accident-prone toy cars, I discovered the
wonders of the city bus. It meant greater freedom, a chance to hop on for a
dime—God, I’m old—and go downtown with a friend, without my parents. I was nine
or ten when I started. Back then, parents didn’t worry about childhood
abductions. Or maybe mine just knew I’d be returned within the hour.
The lovely thing about relying on the Tube for getting about
London is that I never have to get my bearings. North, east, south, west, they’re
irrelevant. Instead, my navigation is based on Piccadilly and District lines. I
have no idea if I’ve traveled great distances to the far corners of the city or
if I’ve simply crisscrossed the same quarters time and again.
It’s simply wonderful. When I’m not people watching, I’m
staring at the straight line “map” between the windows and the ads for slimming
one’s body “in just 12 weeks!” and for Gaviscon, granting welcome relief from
heartburn and indigestion. It’s bonus reading, aimed at the betterment of my
life. If I just heed the ads, surely I’ll be hotter and healthier!
The crowds on the Tube vary greatly. It wasn’t well
populated on that initial ride from Heathrow and, truthfully, that had come as
a disappointment. My geeky love of mass transit heightens when a system is
well-used. There have only been a couple of times when I’ve had to stand, but
that’s when I like it best. By golly, I’m a part of something!
The best ride was 4:00 Saturday afternoon when I crammed on
the Piccadilly from Leicester Square to King’s Cross. I squeezed on—last possible
body!—and extended my arm to grip an upper bar as bodies gently bumped into me
during rougher patches on the rail.
When it came time to disembark, and after heeding that
lovely caution, “Please mind the gap,” I joined swarms of people merging onto
two heavenward escalators and emptying into the ultra-busy station. It all felt
part of one exhilarating ride. I was giddy for a full hour afterward, with no
one to exclaim, “That was fun!” Probably a good thing.
And so I know what to say when people back home ask me about
the highlights of my first trip overseas. The Tower Bridge. The Tate Modern. And,
sure, Buckingham Palace even if the Queen declined to invite me in for tea and
hot cross buns. Frankly, though, it’s a wonder I spent any time above ground at
all.
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