TUBE TIME

As a kid, my first image of London was the double-decker bus. I had one as part of my Matchbox car collection. It crashed a lot. Occasionally it soared over a desktop cliff but typically it simply tipped on its side. Maybe I didn’t have the greatest imagination.

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.

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.

TREASURED MOMENTS OF THE SOLO TRAVELER

There are so many must-sees in London. This being my first visit, I’ve decided to cram in as many of the tourist stops as possible. It’s what people will ask about back home. Did you go to Westminster Abbey? Did you linger at Trafalgar Square? Did you see a show? These are the things you’re supposed to do. A “no” response comes off as incomplete homework. (Or, technically, away-work.)

The good thing about traveling solo is that I can pack more in. I don’t have to wait for yet another toilet stop or line up to see the Crown Jewels as part of my visit to the Tower of London. (A big diamond does nothing for me. I could Google Image it if I feel the need. But I won’t. Ever.)

There are times when I can slow down, too. I don’t have to listen to a companion’s strategic sighs as I seemingly take too long gazing at an Assyrian colossal guardian lion’s face or standing and absorbing a sense of historic awe while studying the artifacts from the Mausoleum of Halikarnassos at the British Museum. (Another great part about traveling alone is there is no one to berate my lack of direction as I spend ninety minutes circling the same area in search of the elusive British Museum! It’s uncanny how consistently wrong my lefts and rights are. Okay, this might be an argument for traveling with someone. I’d shut up and follow.)

It is at art museums where I most appreciate being on my own. I tend to dawdle in rooms that most people pass through en route to “the real art”. Sometimes I feel the stares as patrons wonder what in the world I am photographing. Really?! What does he see that I don’t? I can appreciate a Rembrandt or a Gainsborough for the fine brushwork and the meticulous details, but I tend to do so whilst suppressing a yawn. Lovely. Such a marvel. Like the Crown Jewels.

My memories of the Tate Modern, the National Gallery and the Tate are of the quirkier pieces. A Dubuffet collage (“Vicissitudes”). Rebecca Horn’s “Pencil Mask”. Nam June Paik’s “Bakelite Robot”. Sometimes my fascination shifts from the art to the people. I found great joy in parking myself on a bench in a room at the Tate Modern devoted to the photographs of Simryn Gill, everyday portraits of people in her Malaysian hometown, made remarkable by the exotic fruits fitted on their heads. Many viewers smiled, even laughed, as I did, but others frowned, scrunched up their noses or scoffed and quickened their pace to move beyond such drivel. These are the people who will find greater merit in Picasso’s “Weeping Woman” simply because, wow, it’s a Picasso.

Two particular pieces at the Tate engrossed me even though, or perhaps because, they failed to dazzle. Each served as the genesis of stories in my mind as I contemplated the artist’s initial inspiration, the reactions of friends and the process for constructing the final piece. When is a work finished? Both pieces were beds of one form or another. The first one I came across was the encased “Bed” by Antony Gormley, comprised of 8,640 slices of Mother’s Pride bread and featuring double resting places fitted for the artist. I wonder if his mother was indeed proud of little Antony’s bread bed. It was a refreshing installation after touring so many elaborate and reverent memorials and sarcophagi throughout London. The second piece was “My Bed”, a 1998 creation by Tracey Emin consisting of an unmade bed with personal belongings strewn on the floor beside it. I could not help but admire its simplicity and the audacity of the artist. I have been creating a version of “My Bed” all my life. How did I overlook my own artistic flair?! Sure, Ms. Emin’s work is edgier for she has cigarette packages and empty liquor bottles on the floor whereas I would have open copies of “Entertainment Weekly”, a backpack and the packaging from a one-sitting caramel popcorn feast. If only I’d seized the moment in, say, 1997. I could have been in the Tate! Alas, now my unmade bed is simply derivative, a harkening back to a mother’s scorn rather than pride.

I am thankful that not everyone sees the merit and the amusement in the same things I do. It means I can enjoy what I like with little chance of having my view obstructed. It also means I can go to all the same tourist stops as thousands of others visiting London on the same day and still have entirely unique memories.