28 April – Heather Comes to London, Part II.
Meetings made me a poor host the Monday and Tuesday of Heather’s visit. The good things that came from this are that she now navigates the Tube like a native – with a special affection for both the Hammersmith and Embankment stops, and I’m sure my local Starbucks is wondering where the new Iced American Girl has gone – or perhaps they just feel they narrowly escaped invasion*
Heather enjoyed the Grand Tour of gift shops whilst here. I enjoy a gift shop – no I love a good gift shop – and while our shared fondness for such places is not the bedrock of our friendship, it is one of the elements that reaffirms the bond. I take great pleasure in seeing the myriad tchotkes that are elevated to heirloom and keepsake status due to addition of a proper name or trademarked slogan.
She visited the shops at the Tower of London before even setting foot on that hallowed ground, and had the prescience to purchase a plush Thor the Raven prior to being charmed by the real deal. We missed the Royal Mews***, but not the Royal Mews store – where in addition to Buckingham Palace tea towels and slippers, you can treat your pup to Royal Happy Hound biscuits and pamper them during walkies with a prince or princess watering/food bowl bound together in a handsome, hard-backed travelling case. We went in fact to all the BP shops, as we were curious to see if each one specialized in target-specific merchandise or if they all carried the same stock.****
We did eventually visit the Tower itself where we went OOOHHH at the Jewels, AAAAHH at Henry VIII’s codpiece, and Ick-Huh at the axe and block that separated my ancestor’s head from his neck, fortune and future.
We followed this with a walk across the London Bridge and went up the London Eye. It was dusk, and both the light and views were splendid. We caught sight of Batman and Superman, and agreed that Spiderman must still be stationed in New York, which we decided was a pity after we noticed the most pointless button in all the world in our Eye pod^. Written on the sign above the button were the instructions to “Press in case of emergency”. Really? What are they going to do? Have the ambulance at the ready for when the stricken rider alights? Super-speed the wheel, upsetting the beer and fish & chips nestled in the fellow riders’ gullets? No – this is a case where Spidey could really be of use. Maybe he’s around when Kirsten Dunst is in town.
On Tuesday, Heather walked through Piccadilly Circus, and in a blaze of New York pride, found the scope of neon and tacky-hood to be lacking compared to Time Square. This is an honest-to-goodness feat, as a New Yorker rarely finds anything about Time Square to positively recommend it. She then wandered around and sat on the steps in Trafalgar Square – happy to bask in the sun and not be hailed on.
When finally I arrived, we walked through Green Park – whetting our appetites for future sightings of Royal waterfowl, took pictures of the Palace and missed the Mews (though as you know, not the gift shop). We then went to Hyde Park so that Heather could see the swans at the Round Pond near Kensington Palace. I realized, after we’d passed the PNR, ^^ that perhaps Heather was being a good friend and just humouring my need to show her said swans. I started to tense under the heavy knowledge that there best be swans at the end of this journey –in fact the pond best be lousy with swans. The tension was caused by the fact that while I had on one day found swans at the pond, a pond in a park is not a zoo, and I couldn’t confirm that this was where the swans always were. What if that day had been a fluke and today they’d decided to take their daily swim in the Serpentine? I had promised a place lousy with swans, but Heather knows far too well that I sometimes remember seeing things a wee bit differently than they actually are, and I could easily hear the doubt in her voice.^^^
Lucky for me the swans – and mallards as a bonus – were out in force and were working it with style. Pictures were snapped and giggles giggled and we found a happy bench and basked in the scene.
That evening – ginormous sniff, sniff – was the last of her trip. Harald joined us for farewell cocktails, commiseration and yes, more hail. I won a raffle, but as it was not a work permit and a job, it was not enough to keep Heather in the city.
The next day we breakfasted at Mosa’s and then Heather answered the beacon and returned to her home away from home, Heathrow Terminal 3, where she was reunited with the man who saved her luggage – and where they now live, happily-ever-after, in a cottage behind Carousel 12, with a rifle, a pony and yes, a Slurpie machine.
***
*I am – and have no evidence to disprove this claim – the only resident of London, and perhaps the whole of Europe, who drinks Iced-five-shot-venti-americanos, black or otherwise. I am now well recognised at two outposts and at a third – where I’ve been but an toddler’s handful of times – they look up cheerfully in recognition at my order and say “Oh hello, how have you been?” when they process that Iced-Americano girl is in ‘da house.
By preference I am an iced coffee girl, but – and this is important and I can visualize the slow bobble-headed nodding from my brethren – never order iced coffee from a place where it is not a standard menu item. The reason being that iced coffee is not just coffee over ice, no, no my hot-beverage friends: it is the result of an alchemic process of a rich, deep roast brewed with half water, set to chill and then and only then is it ready to be poured over ice and pleasantly sipped. It is common in New York to see people drinking Iced Coffee in driving snow while being blown about by sub-zero winds. No one – at least no local – bats an eye. The benefit to this is that at certain cafes, you can order iced coffee that has been elevated to Iced Coffee status. One café on Bedford and N. 6th in Williamsburg called Verb has done for the drink what Chef Eric Ripert has done for fish. Here they cold brew grounds from the finest beans for twenty-four hours, coaxing from them a taste unrivalled in smoothness, depth and general dreamy goodness. I very much miss that Iced Coffee.**
My point is that here, I’m met with shock, awe and incredulity when I first order, even by my friends and fellow patrons (the former have even taken to discuss my preference with disgust; I’m not quite paranoid enough to worry about the latter picking up the same hobby), but not by my Hammersmith Baristas who now understand and take excellent care of me.
**If you go there, please visit the bookstore adjacent (Spoonbill & Sugartown). It’s as fine as the IC –and that is the highest praise I can bestow.
***Again – so sorry!
****Guess which!
^Pun not intended –though this would be the one Eye/I pun not for sale at its gift shop, and now I wonder why. Surely there is a market for a branded Eye/iPod pre-loaded with walking tours and London related music. Get on it Apple™ marketing team.
^^Point of no return – I watched Alien vs. Predator on Saturday – and yes, I have no idea why.
^^^Full disclosure: there was an evening last summer, where Heather, our friend Kate and I were – ahem – as warm with drink as with the balmy August evening. Conversation turned, as it oddly often does, to the subject of 7-11 and Slurpies. Heather and Kate were lamenting the lack of both in our fair city, and jonesing for a Slurpie. I looked at them and said, with a force disproportionate to the situation, “What are you talking about? 7-11s are everywhere. You can’t walk three blocks without stumbling into one. New York is lousy with – lousy I say – with ‘em”.
The following day, H & K said it was Slurpie time, to which I said, with genuine confusion, “7-11 in New York? Really? Where?”.
