Low-Down from High Street

“London calling, yes, I was there, too
An’ you know what they said?  Well, some of it was true!
London calling at the top of the dial
And after all this, won’t you give me a smile?”   – The Clash

Jolly good!

We arrive in London. Pubs spill drinkers embracing bitter pints onto sidewalks warm with glorious rays of Spring.

Our accommodation is on stately Rosebery Street in Clerkenwell, an emerging bend of hipdom, just beyond the West End glut of tourism.

It is clear throughout the Capitol that English traditions, both beloved and stuffy, are under assault by the influx of cosmopolitanism. London’s legacy as a preserved English relic is giving way to eclectic modernism. The Commonwealth comes home to roost – and refurbishes the nest.

Fascinating contrasts of cultural transition abound.

Footsteps from our door is Exmouth Market, once a sleepy lane of iron mongers, off-license betting stalls, and curry shops. Now this pedestrian street shelters multi-ethnic food stands, gastro-pubs, tattoo artists, smart stylists, and men-only barbers/beard-shapers.

Man-buns are ubiquitous.

I attempt to exchange a bag of old coins-of-the-realm, long sequestered in my home desk drawer, for proper sterling notes. Olde “shillings” and grimy pence are politely rejected as legitimate currency by humored waiters at Wilmington Pub.

Obedient store clerks still examine handwriting of credit purchases, after approval is instantly relayed from global financial interlocks. This remains a quaint, ineffective deterrent to commission of fraud.

Smart architecture rises on every horizon amid gritty Victorian blocks. Former working class neighborhoods flourish with new designer shops as flush global citizens seek predictable Royal institutions. Money and politics pursue a safe, fashionable harbor in Britannia. In Chelsea, Knightsbridge, and Sloane Square, Arabic, Russian, French, Italian, and Chinese often overtake English as the language heard on the High Street.

Bicyclists and skateboards weave wildly between red buses and black cabs. Uber is the invisible transport of choice by investment bankers, actors, and west-coast techies doing an expat term in the City.

It is Easter break. Tourists with hyper-cranked kids and drunk spring-breakers flood London’s Center of postcard attractions. Piccadilly, Trafalgar, West-End theatres, the recently-revived Thames riverside banks all swell with evergreen appeal. A terrorist attack at Westminster last week seems to be drawing curious crowds!

Aside from the NHS, benefits of the UK include free admission to a collection of wonderful museums. The Tate Modern occupies a re-purposed power station in Bankside. We return to sit in a dimly lit room of immense works donated by the painter, Mark Rothko. The unforgettable, subtle colors feed calm and focus. We realize that we are gazing at $2 billion worth of paint!

We visit the National Gallery at Trafalgar – one hour goes a long way. The superb Wallace Collection, a grand residence of the Marquess of Hereford in re-energized Marylebone, houses the legacy of astonishing wealth and taste.  The British Museum contains antiquities harvested from the Empire. Kenwood House in suburban Hampstead Heath is a refined venue for lunch and a stroll within a classic residence. All deliver refinement of  rich cultural heritage, and our deepest appreciation.

Saatchi Gallery in Chelsea is set on the grounds of the former Duke of York’s HQ. “From Selfie to Self-Expression” inspires us in the “creative potential of a form often derided for its inanity.” Sotheby’s auction house on New Bond street is our secret venue to see world class art readied for the selling block.

More fun at Royal Opera’s Madame Butterfly, and chamber recital Easter morning at Wigmore Hall near Mayfair (free coffee and sherry!). Our musical highlight is Evensong on Easter afternoon at stunning Westminster Abbey where the boys choir and immense pipe organ transport us amid angels. Leaving the concert, I am extended a personal “God bless you” by the Dean!  A Salvation Army Band greets us stepping off the bus on Oxford Street – I march along with them until I got just the right snapshot. Praise the Lord!

The Royal Parks in full bloom and meticulously groomed are no less a sanctuary for the soul. Long live the Queen!

We pack two weeks with theatre: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, at the Old Vic with Harry Potter’s Daniel Radcliffe (a smoking, disheveled Sir Tom Stoppard is sighted at interval. He may be our greatest living playwright). Travesties, also by Stoppard, amazes in potent revival at the Apollo, and The Goat, or Who is Sylvia with Damian Lewis, underwhelms at the Royal Haymarket. Edward Albee where are you?

The full low-down includes lots of food highlights. Let’s just say: this ain’t your Bangers and Mash of yesteryear. Middle Eastern, Indian, Viet, Chinese, tapas bars, and an exciting array of healthy fast foods – Itsu, Pret a Manger, provide a full sideboard of nutrition, variety, and flavor.

We took the Great Western train to visit old colleagues and tour Britain’s oldest village, Avebury, complete with fields circled with huge pre-historic stones. Another day to pastoral Cambridge was truly meaningful…if only I had paid more attention in high school math.

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