When London Calls...
I’ll always answer.
I’ll forever be chasing the high that came a couple of days into my first trip to London—my first trip abroad!—while I was on the Millennium Bridge that hangs above the Thames, connecting St. Paul’s to the Tate Modern. I’d just hung up from a proof-of-life FaceTime call with my family and in my solitude afterward could properly let the view and the situation sink in. I was alone, in another (new) country, floating on air as I stepped across over the bridge. I have a handful of selfies I took as soon as I’d made it to the other side. The kind of joy that broke onto my face cannot be faked, but I hope each year to replicate it wherever I travel to—whether or not that’s to London, though odds are good I’ll keep finding myself drawn back over and again, as long as I live.
I wrote last year about the pride I had at taking a chance going to a country that doesn’t predominantly speak English (though most who I encountered in the service industry in Spain wanted to speak to me in English regardless of my attempt en español) so of course, this time I’d stay within the UK, right? No joke, it may be that far enough back part of my bloodline runs through there as well as Sweden and Russia, on that side. The UK imprinted on me when I first went. Its history is so prevalent. I want to walk the paths, climb the stairs, breathe the same stale, mildewy air as the residents of 500+ years ago. The way stats are casually dropped by tour guides or on plaques: “this cathedral was first erected in 1144 AD and fell into disrepair in the 15th century, so we’re making moderate updates now to preserve its structure.”
I don’t think it’s that I won’t EVER see more of the world, I just also know and accept that I’ve only just gotten started exploring Great Britain (the “mainland” countries: England, Wales, and Scotland), so Ireland and Northern Ireland may be next…. Though the cheapest and most direct flight paths go through Heathrow so, you never know. It may just be easier to stop off in London on my way elsewhere. I write this as I await boarding instructions for my imminent Virgin Atlantic flight to Heathrow, now my fifth time going to London.
I’ll never get enough.
***
At the end of this past December I was also in JFK’s Terminal 4. As boarding was set to begin I closed my book, the aptly titled Airplane Mode by Shahnaz Habib, and gathered my carry-on bags. I’d spent altogether too much money on mediocre airport food, but I was hoping to eat a substantial meal and sleep through the dinner service during my late night flight. Habib’s engaging and thoughtful points on the history of travel and tourism was somehow as funny as it was sickening, as she paired much of it with her personal plights with various countries’ excessive visa applications and immigration laws. She provides enough realness, not levity per se, but grounding facts in addition to some of the more grueling histories of the people and places she wrote about. As a whole, the book is very nearly flawless. I clutched it between both hands as I laid my head back on my seat and made an attempt to doze.
Six hours later: not at all rested, supremely dehydrated, and nearly delirious, I stomped to baggage claim with purpose. The sun was breaking through the clouds, having just gotten up as well, and I was trying to muster enough energy to get to the exit and hail a taxi.
After a quick shower and a short nap at my hotel nhow, I ventured not much more than a square mile (East London being such an interesting locale, it’s easy to stay). I was warmed by the chai version of a hot toddy at a café bar, Shoreditch Grind, that I’d passed by before but had for whatever reason skipped. In need of a break from the wind I stopped in and was pleasantly surprised by the laidback atmosphere, bright neons, and playful drinks menu. As I read at the window, I realized just how perfect Airplane Mode was, and not just for me, in that moment, but also exceptionally well done. Habib even called out my favorite read from my previous visit to London, Flâneuse by Lauren Elkin, and emphasized some of my favorite points:
“When you read about a city, it is standing still, cryogenically, frozen in an author’s words. You pick up a guidebook, and in its little guidebook prism, the city and all its history and culture are so neatly packaged for you. But when you are actually there, for instance, walking through the ancient Hippodrome, now a historic district teaming with backpackers, somebody will trample on your feet while taking a photo. Outside the Blue Mosque, office workers are eating lunch in the square with their backs turned to the building you’ve traveled halfway around the world to see. A young couple saying goodbye and lingering afterword will remind you that you are alone, that you have no one to share this journey with. Something melancholy in the city will poke you with an ice-cold finger, and say, ‘Little tourist, you can have my palaces and minarets, but you cannot have me.’”
I’d almost left the book at home because I wanted to save room in my bag for others I hadn’t yet started—something I would have surely regretted. I was breathy with contentment, feeling seen within the pages of Airplane Mode. There are memes galore of Americans in particular feeling their soul resented their body as soon as they board a flight abroad, and how they always ask themselves while looking around foreign cities if they should move there, as if it would be no more complicated than ordering a pizza for delivery to their suburban home. I ask myself the same and always feel invigorated when traveling (doubly so when traveling alone), but I respect the cities I visit to the point that I will likely always appreciate more as long as I don’t try to call it home.
As the light started to slope against the buildings I found a good stoping point and descended into the tube, en route to Brick Lane. On a whim walking by Whitechapel Gallery I decided to stop in. I was struck by the Nicole Eisenman’s paintings in her show, What Happened which was loud, political, and prolific. I took my time with the show, viewing all the pieces on multiple floors and made a note to remember to look up more of her work and inspirations.
Onward I traipsed through familiar terrain, the artfully graffitied and poster laden walls of Brick Lane. I was hoping to finally peek into Librería but I’d just missed their opening hours. I settled with a quick browse through Brick Lane Books instead, grabbed another chai around the corner to hold between hands frozen by the wind, and looked up the directions to another haunt I’d been unable to visit previously. Satan’s Whiskers in Bethnal Green is ranked high on the list of best bars in the world, and rightfully so. It can be somewhat of a trek but won’t disappoint.
Both cocktails I tried were smooth but sharp with flavor and they serve the best grilled cheese I’ve ever had, hands down. Cheered by a great start to my trip I decided I (somehow) had enough energy to visit one more bar and took the tube back toward Shoreditch where the underground spot Nightjar sat just north of the Old Street station. Their drinks rivaled that of Barcelona’s Paradiso, with the creativity and daring blends strikingly displayed. I made conversation with the bartender and doled out recommendations for where he should drink on his upcoming trip to New York City, and he gave me a full deck of the playing cards they use as coasters—which boast their logo on one side and classic cocktail recipes on the other.
The next morning started off rough, news coming very early that morning that one of my in-laws’ dogs had gotten out, was struck by a car, and died. I kept in close contact with my husband for updates and to provide some consolation for the difficult day they had ahead.
It seemed like a bad omen. You know what they say about your best laid plans? Everywhere I tried to go to get a coffee or sit down to breakfast was closed, shuttered tight for the holidays, most not set to open back up for days or weeks. Still, I tried to stay positive and look on the bright side: at least I got a picturesque walk through some parts of London I hadn’t seen before.
In fact, I was so out of place, I quickly got lost on my way to a bus that could take me back toward familiar grounds. Midday I made it over to Marylebone where I happily stayed for the entire afternoon. Shopping at Daunt Books is always a treat, but the crowds made it a tight squeeze so once I’d selected a handful of titles I left to meander the neighborhood for a meal. After a couple laps I settled on the Japanese comfort food at Taka which was pricey but fabulous.
Luckily I saved room for dessert as the Wallace Collection has a restaurant within that serves myriad sweets for tea service. As the sun was setting I toasted the memory of the dog we’d loved and lost, and tried to relax into the grand space’s soaring dusty pink walls topped with a glass ceiling, a Prosecco drink and tall slice of carrot cake in hand.
As darkness fell I found myself on the way to the Landmark Hotel bar. The lounge is breathtaking but the drinks only so-so for such opulent accommodations and a high price tag. Around the corner was an eclectic diner-esque family style restaurant, Bill’s. I grabbed a high top there and tucked into hummus and a Mediterranean quinoa bowl. When thoroughly stuffed I took a weaving route to the Grazing Goat where I let the seasonal warm mulled wine seep into my bones before I had to head back to the bus stop in the blustery evening.
***
When I found St. Dunstan in the east on Instagram I knew I had to see it in person. I jotted it down on a potential list of places to see should I make it back, and when I mapped it out I realized it was somewhat on the way to the Tate and that morning there was a brief period of sun—so I hustled down to the Tube.
I framed as many photos as I could, trying to remember to take a few extra moments without my face smushed behind a viewfinder or glued to my phone’s screen. Though, ever aware of the mercurial weather in England and its proclivity toward rain, I didn’t allow myself nearly enough time. I did a little photoshoot downtown (does the business district there count as downtown like it does in NYC?) and ended up steps from the Bank station on Northern line as rain began to fall. Twenty minutes later, after descending, waiting on the platform, riding the train, and ascending back on street level I was across the river and the sun was out again.
Instead of finding a bus line that might take me the rest of the way, I popped into the nearest cafe, Orée, and got a ham & cheese on a baguette (at £2.50, it felt like a steal) and took my breakfast al fresco on foot through the outer limits of Borough Market, scooting by Southwark Cathedral—currently one of my favorite landmarks in town—along the south bank, under the train tracks, past the prison museum and its accompanying dungeons, and onward along the Jubilee Pathway, past the Globe, and to the mouth of the Millennium Bridge that opens up in front of Tate Modern.
Inside I found a docent and asked after the feminist exhibit I’d purchased a ticket for and was told it was actually at the Tate Britain. It had a timed entry and I was due there in 15 minutes but there was no way to make it to the museum’s other location that fast. She said maybe with the ferry and I said, well I’m already here. Pointing me to the information desk she suggested I exchange the credit for a show there.
I decamped to the gift shop to mull it over and distract myself with art books. Top of mind was my mother’s reminder to bring her home something so I perused all the artsy souvenirs on offer and only selected a few postcards for myself. Taking a loop around the back I found that part of the store to be solely full of books (!!), oversized coffee table editions transitioning to art theory and critique plus a mishmash of general fiction and nonfiction. Best of all there was a table and chairs.
I dropped myself down, content to rest my feet and decide if I was going to buy anything. England on Fire and Autotheory as Feminist Practice had caught my eye. They were both size-able so it was best to only get the two. I paid and made my way back to the information desk.
With minimal fuss I got a new ticket to A World in Common: Contemporary African Photography. It was serendipity. The show was bursting with much excellent large scale photography and some interactive multimedia and video pieces. Having been before and ready to buzz around town before a dinner reservation at 6pm by Kings Cross, I took off after I completed the floor-through exhibit.
Hungry, overwhelmed by choice, and off-kilter from the strong bursts of wind, I circled the block until I found an oversized restaurant at the base of what was probably an office building. The area was mostly empty but for the under-40 set palling around, killing time until the New Year’s Eve parties taking place later that night.
The Refinery had the perfect ambiance to hang out in midday, to stretch out and have a long lunch. It spanned a space several times the size of my entire house, with an industrial floor plan. It was dressed up and festive throughout but wasn’t trying too hard. The chairs had red plaid pillows and blankets, for warmer days or months when the doors and windows were thrown open to the breeze blowing across the Thames. There was a huge family style table bissecting the main dining area, water bowls for dogs, exposed duct work, and an open air kitchen. I had a crispy duck salad and a split banana whiskey drink. I paged through Airplane Mode before and after eating, temporarily not in a rush:
“Here I was traveling by myself, safe and sound and happy in a place I had dreamed about. I did not want to feel entitled to the world. I did not want guidebooks to center me in my point of you. What kind of way is that to get to know the places we go to? I did not want the invisible privileges that put a veil between me and the world…. We are primed to think of a lack of privilege as a deficit. And of course it is that, in many big and small ways dictated by structural inequalities. But the more we think of it as a hole, the less whole we become. But what if, instead of being a hole in the self, lack of privilege is more of a crack through which the light gets in? A third eye that reveals the magic-mushroom hybridity of the world we live in?”
Having taken as many trips as I had, buying as many books as I do, and never worrying whether or not ordering another drink that night will mean I’ve run over budget or be out of money entirely… well I stink of privilege. But when I’m traveling it is to repossess some semblance of my self, the person I am—and want to be—doesn’t project the blessings that have befallen this wonderful life I have. I just want to be. The best way I’ve seen to do that, to not get lost in the same experience everyone else seeing this city is going to have, is to treat London like my New York, and go about my day as if I would back home. Neither here nor there would I ever hope to be so jaded that I couldn’t be charmed by the world around me, letting it pass me by instead of romanticizing the heck out of it all. I live for my solo book and coffee dates and being stopped in my tracks by a good Golden Hour show of slanted light and long shadows and realizing that had I been born into any other time I’d never be able to be doing what I am right now.
Thoughts still percolating after an hour, I was ready to move on to a prestigious cocktail bar, Lyaness, farther down the bank. It’s within the Sea Containers Hotel which was just two bus stops away, but proved to be difficult to find out back facing the river. It was so gorgeous though I was left without complaint. Even the bathrooms made me feel glamorous with the wide sinks illuminated by so many warm, round bulbs, a contrast to the black stone floor and walls.
When I got around to the bar entrance, I was offered a seat on a turquoise pouf in front of a low table that faced out to a walkway abutting the Thames. Behind me was the most beautiful bar I’d ever seen—the countertops an aqua-green marble struck through with light veins. Sunroom-like beams held backlit panes of glass, all awash in gold. I would have turned around and sat myself at the inviting stools there if it weren’t for the perfect view of the clouds rolling through. I tucked back into Shahnaz Habib’s exuberantly written observations, she in a class all her own.
“On the tourist trail, it is time that reveals itself. The present does not exist. Only the past and the future do. But on the border between the two, a border that is thinner than a hair, sharper than a sword’s edge, there is a moment. To call it the present would be to overstate it. But it is there: a micro world of galloping horses, overheard conversations, and bits of song. There is no now but now.”
I was so close to that high I’d experienced six years prior when I had first come to London.
I let the server talk up the different options and help me narrow it down. The cocktails were earthy and elevated, colorful and strong. When I stopped after two he handed me the bill and asked after my plans for the rest of the evening, and the rest of my trip. With hindsight I should have split my time between Lyaness and 12th Knot, the other bar on the premises, but I didn’t know of it until I passed it by on my way out—and I digress. I said I’d hopefully waited out the rain (I hadn’t, it started up again as soon as I hit the sidewalk, pouring by the time I found Waterloo Station; yes that Waterloo) so I could glimpse Battersea Power Station before dark. I finished the last few pages of Airplane Mode and may have clutched it to my chest in contentment before I settled my tab and left with my umbrella at the ready and a grin on my face despite the weather.
What I didn’t know was that as I rotated through my favorite revelations from Habib I was headed to what was essentially a high-end mall, much like The World Trade Center station in Lower Manhattan, or Hudson Yards in Midtown just north of Chelsea. Along with several hundred others exiting Northern line station there, I darted around puddles until I could stop under an awning, partially hidden from the rain and wondered if there was more to see here than the towers that once perhaps let loose billowing plumes of smoke everyday.
I decided there wasn’t, not them under the wet darkening skies—and turned right back to ride the tube through Southwark and Borough and Bank, retracing my steps for the whole day, disembarking in Camden. The Standard stood before me across the street from St. Pancras. Checking the time I saw I had about 45 minutes before dinner, so I went in.
***
This time around I agonized over my hotel choices. I was hell-bent on not repeating the terrible experience from 2022, when I rebooked a different hotel in the middle of the night at the “boutique” hotel I’d chosen on a whim. While trying to narrow it down I had dozens of tabs open. The first choice I had to make was about my budget: did I want to save money for extra books and cocktails, or did I need to overspend (hard not to when you are staying anywhere in a city on New Year’s Eve) to ensure I’d be happy, safe, and in a good location?
My friend’s husband, British himself, loves Islington and encouraged me to go with nhow, which I did, though I kept considering the Standard. It’s ideally placed, has multiple bars on site, and is highly rated. It would have been $1,600 for just the three nights after tax and travel insurance and I didn’t want to commit. Ultimately, it was good for me to stay elsewhere—if I go back during a regular week, the nightly rate is actually affordable so I’ll reconsider—but it was still at the top of my list of hotel bars to venture into.
I was writing this within the Double Standard, one of their bars on street level. At first glance I wasn’t impressed by the menu, but the Smokey Mary rum and pineapple concoction is rather delightful. They had well over a dozen bottles of champagne chilling nearby, ready to toast to 2024, but I only had time for the one drink before my dinner plans down the street.
Just a few minutes’ walk down the main road is the Pullman and the exquisite GA KingsX. I’d spotted it on the ride in from Heathrow and booked a table while I was still in the cab. I knew nothing of it, other than it was easily accessible no matter where I’d be coming from, it had some funky design choices, and the pre-fixe menu looked intriguing and worth the £70 or so it cost. I took a gamble and it paid off. I wanted to eat early and get to bed early, always eager to avoid crowded spaces. There were only three other tables seated when I arrived—I was overjoyed at the prospect of getting my quiet New Year’s.
The restaurant was extremely eclectic, bright and poppy, ‘80s Miami if made more modern and not skimping on any palm fronds. A mango mint margarita was a perfect start to the incoming five-course meal that outdid each previous bite. The service was just as impeccable and I made sure to pass along all of my compliments to the kitchen. After personally praising the chef on the superb pork belly—the most delicate, savory version of the dish I’d yet encountered—I pulled out a new book, Out of Silence, Sounds: A Writer’s Guide and sat back with a glass of pinot noir.
Around 8pm I packed up and caught the bus (again waiting for it on a blustery street corner) and was ensconced in my hotel again by 9pm. I pulled out clothes for the morning and gathered everything else, carefully stuffing ten new books into my suitcases. I fell asleep to Pretty Woman and woke up to fireworks and cheering.
At the window at 12:01am I could see reflections of multiple shows exploding above the city. I rested my forehead against the glass and muttered a quiet “rabbit, rabbit,” hopeful for another exciting few days, and months ahead. The year yawned out before me, only seconds old, my expectations already outpacing it, stretching away from anxiety and toward the joy I know, or am trying to remember that I deserve.
On January 1st I boarded a northbound train to the ancient town of York. Watching the rolling hills and farmland pass by I finished listening to the end of the wonderful, albeit sad memoir How to Say Babylon and doubled down with the heavy themes by starting The Great Displacement: Climate Change and the Next American Migration. Why, I couldn’t say, but spoiler—the migration of sorts has already begun. It had my full attention as I stared out the window for the two-hour journey.
At the station I disembarked, crossed the road and toward the river and dragged my suitcases down the cobblestone street to Malmaison. It’s super modern, swanky, and reminded me a bit of the Graduate hotels back home. There was a whole gaggle of people checking out and so at 11am they didn’t yet have a room ready for me. I left my luggage with the front desk and pulled out my camera, prepared to explore.
Leading into the old city is the Quirky Café which lives up to its name with the feel of your grandma’s den. It helps that it’s in such a fun location between the towers in the bridge itself. I drank some chai and got my bearings, readied my camera. I’d smartly dressed in layers to ensure I’d be able to spend most of the afternoon outdoors. Immediately I was struck by St Wilfred Church and the towering York Minster bathed and dressed up in the golden afternoon light.
Walking through bustling streets only about half of the shops were open but nobody cared, gathering in sunbeams and by the carousel at the center of town, allowing for whimsy and discovery and calm, all ideal for the first day of another year. I stopped in for some quick pub food and whiskey, not wanting to waste too much of the daylight.
I continued to walk circles through the city, crossing through the Roman gates over and over. Just before sunset I did a bit of browsing in Waterstones, mostly to defrost my legs as I left empty handed. Languidly ambling toward the castle I thought that if I kept on I’d get to the wall and a set of stairs to use to get up the elevated walking path. It was completely surreal that a) there were no handrails preventing anyone from tumbling off the side of the thirty foot high wall, b) there was no monetization of the use of the wall, and c) there were no rules posted other than a request to not bring your dogs up with you. It was a great view and an unforgettable experience watching the rest of the city from on high.
When I found the next spot to descend I did so, back on the side of York I’d started at that morning. I kept an eye out for any bookshops or cafes that might still be open and spotted a Brew Dog and thought that could work. I sat myself with a juicy lager and waited on dinner. I reviewed some of the photos I’d taken over the last few days, radiating my own warmth, glad as always just to be there and be able to do some exploring.
Into the dark I went, pizza box in hand, and took it all in trying not to rush through the cold back to the hotel. My room was sort of awkwardly designed with a long vanity counter when you enter that leads to the sink and the shower, the toilet in a little closet behind. On the other side of the vanity and a pane of glass was the bedroom and desk. Altogether it was cozy but perhaps overpriced.
I was going to eat in my room and get some rest, but I was struck with a need to write so I took just my notebook and phone down to the restaurant, sat at the bar and scratched out several pages, intermittently people watching and sipping a surprisingly great smoky twist on a classic margarita. I thought of how I could be anyone, anywhere, doing anything. But best of all, there in that moment, I could just be me.
It seemed as if I shouldn’t be allowed to be this happy doing such basic activities, eating, drinking, walking, but abroad. Travel: antidote to mental stagnation. Travel: the reason I should keep going to work so I can afford to go where I want to. Travel: salve for my soul.
Loved living vicariously through this recap!!