Last Days in London

Our Street

Notes from Late in the Trip

Final Musings: Ethnic London

Our neighborhood in London is a league of all nations, but after Brits, Middle Eastern, (Muslim subset) is the dominant ethnic group. There was a Muslim presence when we in London about five years ago, but it’s much more noticeable now. In Marylebone, we have several Middle Eastern mini-markets and sandwich shops that we rely upon for delicious take-away, and one really topnotch sit-down restaurant called Ishtar. The House of Knowledge (subtitled "Society of the Revival of Islamic Culture") is right across the street.

During the day, Woolworth’s and the discount electronic stores are full of South Asians and Africans, but after sunset women in full burka, or chador, come out to shop at Somerfield Market on Edgeware Road. For some, even a full burka isn’t enough: they blacken the area around their eyes so no flesh at all shows through the eye-slit. Full burkas wait in the checkout line with "partial" burkas and with women in modest western clothing wearing pastel or printed headscarves. The Middle Eastern women behind the check out counter often wear no veil at all, and make chit chat with those in full burkas as if they are old pals. Perhaps they are. In Paris cafes, too, we often saw stylish women for whom the veil seemed to be partly a fashion statement; it flowed in pretty florals over the shoulders and didn’t cover any of the face at all. These women wore smart suits with long patterned skirts that many American women would be pleased to wear. So this whole veil issue is pretty complex.

The day we left for Amsterdam there was an early morning raid in a largely Middle-Eastern neighborhood not far from Marylebone. Over 200 police descended on a flat in response to a reliable tip that a bomb-making factory was in operation there. A Muslim family was dragged down the stairs of their apartment, and one of the young men who lived there was shot and taken to hospital. Afterwards, the whole block was cordoned off and anti-terrorism investigators arrived in haz-mat suits. But by the time we returned, about four days later, not a scrap of evidence nor a trace of chemical had been found. The police were making public apologies to the middle-eastern community (Oops! Sorry!) and tensions were running high.

Paranoia

Our last week in London, it became summer overnight with temps in the upper 80s and a gummy humidity, thick with particulate matter. Our attic apartment held the heat, and we were forced to sleep with the windows open, which let the noise and pollution in. Mike started wheezing, and when he laughed, it sounded like a cartoon dog. (Was that Quick Draw McGraw’s dog, Elvis?) At times, though, it was pretty scary.

Then there started to be problems on the Tube. London’s subway system usually runs very smoothly, and there are regular updates posted at entrances so people can devise alternative routes if there are delays. When we were here in 2000, something as minor as a 5-minute delay would prompt explanations and apologies over the station intercoms. But our last week in London this year, things suddenly started falling apart. Most of the trains aren’t air conditioned, and in addition to regularly scheduled maintenance delays there were mysterious daily problems on the Hammersmith, City and Circle lines. Often there were no explanations at all, not on the station intercoms, not in the press, and station security seemed to be everywhere.

One afternoon we were returning from a matinee through Waterloo station. A wide semi-circle of a dozen or more security personnel blocked the escalator bank, and police with sniffer-dogs patrolled the station. When the train finally arrived, it was jammed with people, and at each subsequent station it stalled for several minutes at a time.

At one point a portly gent in shirtsleeves entered the train announcing, "I think it was a hoax!" quite loudly. After a few minutes he struck up a conversation with us, idle chit chat about travel and St. Patrick’s Day in Boston, with a lot of questions about what we were doing in London and for how long. Mike and I exchanged glances. His accent kept flipping between Irish and English. We started getting paranoid. It was a relief when we spilled from the train at Baker Street. Later having dinner at a Greek restaurant a few blocks from our flat, I swear I saw the same man standing across the road.

Wilton Music Hall, Interior, courtesy of Wilton's Website , used by permission

Wilton's Music Hall, courtesy of Wilton's Website, used by permission

Wilton Music Hall and The British Museum

We haven’t seen much music on our trip except for the choral performances we caught in Yorkminster and a lawn concert on the grounds of Hampton Court that we stumbled upon during our regular tour. So Mike makes some reservations for a concert at Wilton Music Hall. As part of the Spitalfields Festival series, The Dante Quartet will play some Janacek, joined by a tabla player, Sanju Sahai, and soprano Sally Silver for some music with an Indian flavor.

Wilton Music Hall, the world’s oldest surviving grand music hall, was built in 1858 as an extension to Wilton’s pub. Today the place is in somewhat rough shape, after decades as a Methodist mission house and a rag warehouse. The wallpaper is peely, and seating is mostly picnic benches and folding chairs. But they’re working on it. It’s been upgraded as necessary to meet fire and safety codes, but the original serpentine "barley sugar" pillars and decorative papier mache roses on the ceiling are still in place. And when the music begins, by god, the sound is beautiful! Just a great place to hear music. If you're planning on a visit, check Wilton's Website for upcoming concerts and try to find room in your itinerary for an authentic experience:

Link to Wilton's Website

The British Museum

One of our last excursions was a trip to the British Museum. It was hot in the building, the vast atrium lobby held the heat like a terrarium. In the ancient Greek and Roman gallery an alarm went off and pulsed for nearby a half hour before the gaurds were able to get it to stop. People mostly ignored it.

We’d been to the museum on our last trip, but there’s always something more to see. This time it was the Enlightenment Exhibit, arranged as a wealthy Enlightenment intellectual might have displayed objects from his collections. There were beautiful wooden and glass cabinets with hundreds of artifact arranged by classification: seashells, Egyptian gods, Roman coins, stuffed marsupials. It was a charming way to experience the collection.

I was just starting to get museum fatigue, when Mike read a sign that offered visitors a chance to "touch real artifacts." As usual, I was incredulous, but I ought to have learned from York. A nice lady from the museum stood at a table with items on a cardboard tray, eager to give us a real "hands on" experience. The newest object was a 300-year-old brass Gonesha, and yes you can hold it, as its features are already worn smooth from centuries of touching. And here is a string of dolphin teeth from Polynesia, and there’s a little Egyptian alabaster kohl pot. I get to stick my finger in a kohl pot that some Egyptian woman 3000 years ago put her finger into, just like this. "And do you know what this is?" the museum lady asks, handing me a large clay dreidel-like object covered with inscriptions. "It’s a boundary marker from Ur" she explains, "over 5000 years old." Mike reads a translation of the inscriptions and notices references to kings claiming lineage to Gilgamesh. "But the oldest object on the tray is this," she says. It’s a 175,000-year-old stone scraping tool. "See how nicely it fits in your hand?" Wow. The museum suddenly seemed a whole lot cooler.