Jan. 11 – London, U.K.

On Monday, I rolled into St. Pancras Station after a weekend with family in Hamburg. Fog and drab buildings through a succession of cities in the Ruhr. Quadrilingual announcements on the way to Brussels. Ears popping as the Eurostar sped under the English Channel. Twenty minutes of tunnel darkness, then England.

Right then. London.

On the light rail platform at Tower Gateway station, a man talks business into his mobile.

“We’re the Range Rover of boats, you see. Made to go anywhere from Antarctica to Monte
Carlo.”

He’s wearing a suit, carrying a briefcase. It’s the uniform, hereabouts. The major financial centre, Canary Wharf, is five stops to the east. All gleaming glass and concrete, housing banks and brokerages. Confident men and women walk fast to their next appointment, phone at their ear.

“Our turnover is, em, 43 million.”

London’s East End was once crowded with vessels. But the shipping happens elsewhere now,

and the broad muddy river is empty. As the sun rose over Canary Wharf, I ran to the Tower Bridge along the riverside path, in and out of yellow brick warehouses converted into galleries and lofts. Morning commuters move at speed, on foot, on bicycles, around the Tower of London – few tourists out yet.

On the Victoria Embankment later, passing Tate Modern, Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, and the Eye on the opposite shore, I discover that Londoners are passionate runners. At noon, on a work day, it looks like a road race  – more runners than walkers. Heavy-footed plodders, shoes slapping the pavement. New Year’s Resolutionists huffing along in bulging lycra. But also some wiry, determined competitors, who would rather puke than let you pass.

At Westminster Bridge, blunt barges plow noisily through the choppy water, and Big Ben
bangs once. Behind me, street repairmen finish their lunch break and get back to work.

“It don’t ‘ave to be level – joos fla’t.”

I cross the pink-painted Lambeth Bridge, and a Japanese tourist proffers his camera.

“Excuse me. Would you…?” He gestures at the Houses

of Parliament, and holds still while I point and shoot.

Further up the river, on another day. I walk the Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race course. I start at Putney Bridge. The cloud-mottled sky is crisscrossed with condensation trails over Heathrow airport. It’s slack tide. Flocks of gulls and cormorants squawk. White feathers versus black on the slick yellow mud. A lone heron contemplates hisreflection in a tidal pool. I pass pubs and many rowing clubs, though there are few scullers on the water in the weekday noontime. The race markers pass, one by one. Fulham Football Ground, Harrods Depository, Hammersmith Bridge, Chiswick Eyot, Barnes Bridge. Every spring since 1829, four miles of rough tides and currents, tough rowing. Tougher yet for the losers.

Back at St. James’s Station, a thick limestone pile. One hoody-wearer to another;

“Relax, man. We’re ‘ere now. You don’t ‘ave to roosh.”

In St. James’s Park, pigeons, ducks and gulls cluster, questing for breadcrumbs. Geese honk in outrage. Two garbage collectors pass, clutching bags and

“Moe sez to me, he sez. ‘Yore in charge now.’”paper pickers;

A Spanish tourist lets a fat squirrel climb up her leg to grab a peanut. Her friend, wearing a leopard-print coat, captures the moment on an iPhone.

Bells clang at the Horse Guards Palace. A swarm of French schoolgirls clusters around a red-faced guard, standing at attention in brass helmet and cloak. Their hysterical screeches echo in the archway.

“J’ai touché son épée!”

Leftover from New Year’s, champagne corks litter the ground. I kick one, sending it skipping over the pale gravel. I pick it up. It reads “Clignet Select”. Was it any good?

Passing Buckingham Palace, munching on some raisins, I wonder whether the London Olympic organizers have a contingency plan in case the Queen kicks the bucket right before the Opening Ceremony.

Into Hyde Park, I pass two women strolling, one pushing a pram. The pramless one details her life plans;

“I terms of where I wonna live, like. I don’t wonna live someplace really shit.”

Kensington Garden is threaded with paths, interspersed with statues and winter-bare trees. Professional dog walkers amble through with their urban wolfpacks. A singsong “Jasper, Marley, come on” brings a wayward terrier and poodle back running.

On the Underground, throughout;

“Mind the gap.”