I awoke this Saturday
morning to a soft, cool rain. A rain that touches rather than
pelts whatever it lands on, and sounds like sweet,
tinkling drops. Ever have a day that begins so pristine
and perfect that you're loath to even speak
out loud, for fear of shattering it? That was today.
Somehow, in spite of all
the best-laid plans I had made for the day — plans that included
a trip to a flower and garden show, the spacious new library
downtown to pick up a specially-ordered clutch
of delicious books, and perhaps a sip of something warm and
rich across the street at the River Market, and then a peek
into an antique shops. Sipping my first cup of tea of the
early morning, I instinctively knew none of those plans were
going to come to fruition
today. Instead, I would spend it quiet, reflective. No television
I was going to allow myself today, save it being comprised
of watching (for the umpteenth
time) "Tess
of the D'Urbervilles", "Sense
and Sensibility", "Far
From the Madding Crowd", or "Enchanted
April", all films gorgeously
made in England, Italy and France.
I pulled
out my new issue of Victoria
and, with my cup of tea, music playing and the rain softly
falling on this quiet morning, I immersed
myself in page after page of roses, old plates, and sumptuous
gardens. As I did so, remembrances
came to mind ... delicious snippets
from my past trip to England ...
It was on an early Saturday
morning just such as this five years ago that my then 13 year-old
daughter and I were awakening in a quaint
London hotel. As I peered
out the hotel window I watched the endless bevy
of black taxis and the men and women in their heavy raincoats
scurrying
down the wide sidewalks, intent
on their errands.
Somehow being immersed in that atmosphere made us feel like
a part of the English citizenry and not mere visitors.
My daughter and I walked
in the rain to the Courtauld Institute to see our very first
real van
Gogh. On the way there we had to climb a steep
street and to this day we giggle as we reminisce
over a worn-out bicycle someone had propped
against a doorstep. The word "melted" came to both
our minds at the sight of its warped
frame and wavy
tires.
Once in the Institute, dutifully watched over by elderly gentlemen
speaking in hushed tones in their immaculate navy
suits, I broke all protocol by tentatively
touching one finger to the actual canvas of a real van Gogh
— this time that wasn't on the pages of an art book. I simply
couldn't resist it. I had to be able to taste that tormented
yellow pigment with my fingers as well as
my eyes. I wasn't disappointed. One could sense the brushstrokes,
the direction complex van Gogh's hand took as he created his
famous sways and curves with color.
That evening we had reservations
for a walking tour of the infamous
east end of London; the Whitechapel district. We huddled
down deep into our coats. Now, this was the London of the
movies, with its classic fog and mist that faintly tastes
of winter air and yet car exhaust at the same time. At one
point our group stood under a struggling gas light on Puma
Lane, more a paved
alleyway
than a real street. This Victorian-era lamp shone a thick,
ivory-colored
light upon expectant
faces in our small gathering as we listened to the retelling
of the dark history of that area of London. It turned out
the antique appearance of the street lamp we were standing
underneath
wasn't merely for show. It was the genuine article placed
there, among many others, long ago in 1888 by a frantic city
to help deter
the crimes committed in that very neighborhood. The shivers
that ran through us on that dark night, standing mere yards
from where several of the victims
were discovered were not just from the damp cold.
On the tour bus as we rode past the elegant Mayfair district
and later past Kensington Palace, we could see lights on throughout
the upper floors of the Palace. I idly wondered
if Princess Diana was behind one of those windows, as this
was where she had called home.
At midnight after our walking tour was complete we tore down
the street in a blind rain and wind so fierce that it rendered
mere paper of our umbrellas. We hurriedly bought chocolate
milk and Ritz crackers at a tiny shop. Minutes later
we were safely back in our toasty hotel room in
flannel and blankets watching the BBC, sipping
milk and munching on soggy crackers. It
felt like we lived there and it was a happy feeling.
No ... today won't be
a day of madcap
errands after all. It will be one of those deliciously rainy
day of reading; perhaps watching a favorite British film or
videotaped sitcom,
and refilling my little teapot from a dusty antique shop in
London. I think I still have some lemon curd
for toast.
(853 words)
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