Travelogue #2

Meetings in the morning at the Reading office — picked up by a nice Mercedes sedan to get there — and then in the afternoon at our London office (trip to the rail station in my staffer’s somewhat less luxurious Citroen). Then touring about on my own, eating dinner, and returning to the hotel. Random notes …

1. I am not a railway traveller. Never have been. I remember my dad taking the train to commute to/from Menlo Park when I was a wee lad, and I think we rode it once or twice in that context, but that’s it. Oh, and I’ve taken the airport train from Gatwick to Vic Station.

   So it’s a good thing Hans was with me buying my rail pass, otherwise I would have spent twice as much for something that went half as far. As it was, for GBP 14.70 or so, I got a non-peak hours rail pass (Reading to Paddington and back), and unlimited Tube access. And I used both.

2. The London office is just north of Fleet Street, tucked into some quiet office space between major thoroughfares. That left me with plenty of options when I was wrapped up with my meetings at about 3.

3. Can’t swing a dead cat without seeing big posters pushing for London to be chosen for the Olympics in 2012. Indeed, the organizers delivered the proposal to the IOC today (according to innumerable news reports and newspaper headlines). According to the local touts, London’s bid is the second-most likely to be chosen (behind Paris, but well ahead of Madrid, New York, and Moscow).

4. I decided to go down to the National Gallery, as I’d not been there before. And it turned out to be a nice way to pass a few hours of the afternoon.

   First off, I was way overdressed. Sports jacket, plus overcoat, plus hat. Sling a big heavy briefcase over my shoulder, and it made for some nice calorie-burning exercise. Fortunately, they had a coat room at the National Gallery, so I could divest myself of most of it. I arrived at Trafalgar Square, took some pictures, and went in.

   The National Gallary holds part of the British National Collection, particularly the Western European stuff (though most of the British stuff is at the Tate Britain).

   At this point (and until January), they are running a very nice exhibition of art by Raphael. Gorgeous stuff (and very heavy crowds, even on a Tuesday afternoon).

   The rest of the gallery was much less crowded (and free, though a donation is recommended). Some highlights:

   • Ortolano’s St Sebastian with Sts Roch and Demetrius. I just love the expression on the guy on the right, St Demetrius (who was martyred, according to the little sign by the painting, for being too zealous at converting pagans).
   • I did some major study of Desiderius Erasmus in college, so to actually see Holbein’s painting of him (which is the standard image that every text uses) was pretty cool. Indeed, that’s one of the neat things about going to major galleries like this — spotting a painting you know well from prints, and marveling that it’s … well … a real thing. And often (though not always) much larger than you thought.

   • I also loved Holbein’s Christina of Denmark, Duchess of Milan, especially when you realize that it was the 16th Century equivalent of a Personal Ad — a very large portrait painted of Christina as part of the negotiations with Henry VIII to marry her off to him after Jane Seymour’s death (Henry turned down the girl, but kept the painting).

     (It’s also kind of amusing that the entanglement of European royalty made her both a Princess of Denmark and the Duchess of Milan — and that she eventually died the Regent of Lorraine.)

   • And then there’s the, um, interesting Allegory with Venus and Cupid by Bronzino. Though even the detail shot doesn’t show it, having seen it in person, she is, indeed, slipping him some tongue. Right. Remember, kids — you can always get away with painting risque subjects by calling them “Art.” Or “Art after a Classical Theme.” Or “Allegory.” Or all three.

   • They have a nice collection of Titians. I liked his La Schiavona, even if it’s one of his more understated works (in fact, that’s why I like it). They have a few of Rubens‘ works, too, including the amazingly brutal Massacre of the Innocents — which was only recently discovered (and fetched a record GBP 49.5MM at auction — $76.5MM — two years ago); it will be moving to Canada in a few years. (Even the enlarged shot fails to show some of the disturbingly awful details.)

   • Oh, and they have a nice room full of Rembrandts, a small show of Degas, and a few noteworthy pieces by such unknowns as Van Gogh, Monet, da Vinci, and Seurat.

     And I got to see them all. Neener-neener-neener.

     My only regret was not being able to see them with Margie. That was a mistake. Next time …

   • Cutest thing I saw was this piece which was on loan for the Raphael exhibit. Just too fun.
5. Swung past the gift shop, then exited the museum, re-laden with possessions. Took some pictures around Trafalgar Square, had a nice phonecon with Margie (it is, indeed, nice to be able to do that), and then tried to figure out where to eat dinner.

   Eating out in a strange city alone is just no fun. I eventually decided (based on my Zagats) on a place down in Knightsbridge (since I had a Tube pass) — only to discover I’d chosen the wrong station (should have chosen Sloane Square), and ended up walking about a mile or so — which I needed, to be sure, though my new shoes didn’t agree.

   Oriel was listed in Zagats as “cheerful,” “buzzy,” “neighborly,” with decent Mediterranean food. It was also listed as a recommended place for single dining.

   On the plus side, the food was pretty good, the service was fast (if a little stand-offish), and the prices reasonable for being a somewhat upscale sort of establishment. The only real downside (aside from a roquette salad that insisted on spattering everything in sight with vinaigrette) was that it was very crowded. I was in the “non-smoking” room, mostly 2-person tables crammed chockablock into the salon. I’d go again — but I wouldn’t go out of my way to return.

   Looking at various online reviews, Oriel is evidently a place for all the hoity-toity and posh Knightsbridge types to hob-nob. I didn’t see any — but it’s just as well I was in my sports jacket and tie, rather than in a knit shirt and jeans.

6. I wasn’t sure when I could use my (off-peak) train pass back, at 7 or 7:30. I decided to take a post-dinner detour. But where to go? At last, not wanting the same pictures of the same dozen or so monuments, I hit on the idea (looking at the Tube map) of going to Whitechapel and photographing some of the churches there at night. Very spooky Jack-the-Rippery sort of stuff.

   Hrm.

   Exiting Whitechapel station, a Metropolitan Police sign warned politely that muggings took place in the area, so Be Careful.

   Swell.

   Looked up and down the street. No churches in sight. Walked down the block one way, walked back, walked down the block the other way, walked back. No churches.

   It’s a poorish immigrant neighborhood — still. Obviously, in the Ripper days, it wasn’t anyplace too hot. On my short walk (sticking to the well-lit, wide, well-populated sidewalk), I passed by a monument to Edward VII from his loyal Jewish Subjects of East London (1911). Today its a mostly Pakistani neighborhood, judging from the shops — lots small run-down shops, lots of halal (think “kosher” in Islam) restaurants and food stores (“Whitechapel Halal Fried Chicken” — I kid you not — and I’d have taken a picture if I hadn’t been a tad apprehensive about looking like more of a wandering tourist than I was).

   I didn’t feel in fear of my life, really. But I didn’t feel particularly comfortable, either. So I hopped back onto the Tube …

7. … , made my way to Paddington Station (failing to spot any marmalade-sticky bears), and headed back to Reading.

   As advised, I took one of the direct trains to Reading, rather than the local which stops about a dozen times. I was rather proud of myself for finding my way to the platform, and to the proper (standard fare) seats.

8. Upon arrival at Reading Station, I … took a taxi.

   Now, for those of you who live in Big Cities — e.g., New Yorkers — this may not sound like a big deal. I, on the other hand, have used a cab maybe three, four time sin my life. What I know of cabs is what I’ve seen on TV, I’ll be the first to admit.

   Well, it worked out okay. Fortunately, I didn’t have to whistle to attract his attention, just walk up to the front of the taxi queue. GBP 10 back to the hotel. Nice, roomy “London Cab” sort of vehicle. No worries, no being taken for an inflated distance, it all worked great.

Tomorrow … Scotland.