Our first day in London actually began the day before (or was it the day after? Time zones confuse my inner chronometer when too many are crossed too in a single voyage). We strolled from the hotel to a little place, chosen at random along our route, for a pre-theatre dinner. The Parisienne style bistro was called Pierre Victoire and was reasonably priced, offered palatable food, and a waitstaff of surpassing competence. A pleasant surprise when one considers its name might be translated as “Stone(d) Victory”. Regrettably, the theatre performance of “Miss Saigon” we attended was less successful. Burdened with a dated, clichéed storyline the actors responded with the same lack of enthusiasm most Americans had for the Vietnam War as it wound down. They did their duty, but no heroic actions were forthcoming and the outcome was inevitable.

In the morning we awoke to a serious overcast and continuing URI symptoms. A hot shower, a good breakfast and tickets for a matinée at The Globe (to say nothing of the last doses of a z-pack and pseudoephedrine) provided the necessary loin-girdings,and we set off to conquer the Underground. London’s Underground is one of those things that every city might do well to consider. It’s clean, well-lit, signs are abundant and informational, and the escalators work. You can buy a day pass from a human clerk who will cheerfully provide directions to your intended destination and say “Thank you” at the conclusion of the transaction. (I will admit that Paris comes very close, but the “Merci” is sometimes strained, or more often, elided.) It is also remarkably quiet and fast, whisking us to our destination in less time than allotted (though not as fast as the TARDES).

Our intended stop was Southwark, the Underground station closest to the Tate Modern. Clear signs showed the correct “Way Out” to choose, and once at street level, a series of bright orange lampposts delineated the path. The Tate Modern is the epitome of what a museum should be to establish and maintain art as a vital part of a community. It started life as a powerplant, so the physical space is enormous. There are six huge floors for collections which can be displayed in spaces large enough for the most monumental of works, and smaller spaces carved from the larger ones to promote greater intimacy. Along that contemplative thought line, the works are physically accessible – one is asked specifically not to touch them, but one would have no trouble making contact if that was one’s intent. (The British are exponentially ahead of everyone else in understanding that one cannot prevent bad guys and madmen from damaging or destroying cultural icons, but that the bad guys win anyway if, to “protect” these things, we lock them away from everyone.) There are areas explicitly and thoughtfully designed for younger people (read 14 years old and under) which include magnificent computer drawing stations (thank you Michael Bloomberg), three dimensional sculptural blocks and active play areas. Finally, the museum (as are all British museums) is FREE! A donation is suggested, but there are no cashiers watching the plexiglass boxes adorning the lobby, and the amount requested is modest. (The humans recently took their four year old grandson to the American Museum of Natural History in New York and the “suggested” admission for 4 adults and one pre-schooler exceeded $100 – enough to discourage short, casual, just for fun visits. Perhaps our lower scores on global tests is related to a lack of shared values – and in turn a lack of shared values reflects a lack of sharing of our common treasures.)

Lunch was on the sixth floor at the Tate Modern – looking out at the Thames crossed by the Millenium Bridge and St.Paul’s on the other side. The food was nice – not worthy of a special visit, but certainly well above what passes for dining at most museums. I’ll try to review it separately, but don’t hold your breath. Briefly, excellent scallops as a starter, perfectly seared and nicely plated. Perfectly good bavette, prepared medium rare as requested and “chips” that were fresh, crisp, and essentially flavorless. A nice glass of reasonably priced red wine rounded out the repast. Adequately sized portions, friendly service and spectacular views. In keeping with my current FAA instructions to reduce my take-off weight to under 13 stones, dessert has been jettisoned as a regularly scheduled mid-day meal item.

Following lunch, a brief walk along the Embankment brought us to The Globe Theatre. A modern interpretation (health and safety codes weren’t nearly as stringently enforced in Shakespeare’s day as they are today) of the original, it lacks a complete roof, has stalls with benches, and pit for the groundlings. We were entertained by Dr. Scroggy’s War – an early 21st century look at an early 20th century event, treating casualties of World War I trench warfare. The cast was enthusiastic, the writing occasionally compelling, and the entire experience completely worthwhile.

Returning to The Langham was somewhat more challenging than anticipated. The human male’s internal navigation system apparently needed rebooting, or had succumbed to a nasty virus. Five minutes walk in entirely the wrong direction was followed by seven minutes on a less incorrect heading, followed by the hailing of a London taxi. Marvelous invention that it is, the London hack carried us across the Thames only to come to a dead stop somewhere in the vicinity of Oxford Circus. After 5£ of waiting time, the cabbie offered to perform a U turn on a major London thoroughfare as somewhere beyond the next traffic signal, the authorities had closed the road until further notice. We abandoned the cab and used Shank’s Mare for the remaining 9 furlongs.

We returned to our room at The Langham, a spacious abode with views to both the north and east from the sixth floor windows. Immediately east is the All Soul’s Church which has a magnificent Romanesque steeple. Just beyond it is the BBC World Headquarters which, for some reason I cannot begin to fathom, has what looks like a giant empty pilsner glass on the roof. Beyond that is the BT Tower with a neat purple band and the letters “BT” in white up at the top. I’ll try to get a picture of them so you can see what I mean – but the Freudian implications for the true underlying motivations in British culture are inescapable. I have more to tell, but the hour is late and I am weary. To borrow an appropriate phrase from the ultimate observer of Dr. Johnson and Britain, Boswell, “…and so to bed.”