(Dateline London) Everybody likes London—I’ve been here a half dozen times. I tell people I stay in Central London, as “90 per cent of the tourist attractions” are there: Museums and Galleries, gardens and theatres, monuments, the science place and the zoo…
And of course the shopping, including the world famous Harrods department store: a building taking up an entire block, but in not the usual slightly decorated grey or white—It’s ochre, and very ornate.
Just as if I was rich, I did buy something at Harrods: an ethical, faux ivory handle, genuine badger bristle shaving brush. (Versus imitation brushes) Because, if I may rationalize, it’s cheaper than calling a plumber if synthetic bristles, which won’t break down, clog my drain. Harrods is world famous, but here’s what a local man told me: The profits always go down during Arab and Indian religious “no-buying” holidays, because so many of the Harrods shoppers are from off shore money.
Notice how I delicately avoided the issue of whether the shoppers were “members” of Britain or merely “visiting.” Here the line is blurred; words like “assimilate” or “Man, my father is so un-British” are never spoken. Since I can easily “pass for white” I can easily ask white locals about such things… yet I never do. But when a nine years local, by way of Bangladesh, told me a cafe is frequented by “whites like you” I responded, “My favourite colour!” A response I would only give to a local I knew.
Now, the average tourist, upon their return, might enthusiastically tell about, say, seeing London’s public monuments, like the world’s first nurse, Florence Nightingale, towering over a fork in the road and sidewalks… But what don’t they tell you?…
Well, take those walkways. Sometime the alleys are rounded cobblestoned, but rarely are the sidewalks cobbled—In fact, I briefly wonder if roads are cobbled as a tourist gimmick: I mean, in Heidelberg once, when I was with NATO, I saw perfectly good black asphalt being replaced with stones, probably the the interlocking flat type. In London, for sidewalks, what is normal is a pattern of big grey squares, about two or three feet long. (I wish I had measured) Walking down the block, along those big paving squares, I would see many inset rectangles of brass or iron, in various sizes and shapes, and also circles large and small: all along the blocks in no discernible pattern. One day, after I saw men working, I realized: The plates allow work on underground cables, gas lines and such without having to use a jackhammer on the cement.
So much for the frequent metal plates, but why the big squares, instead of long pours of cement? To answer: A few days ago I just had to take a picture: a guy riding a ridiculously small machine was digging, and I could see blue plastic pipes in a trench. Then a cheerful fellow in a hard hat and “hi-vis” vest (such vests are de rigour here) asked me if there was a problem. “No,” I said “I’m a tourist and like to take pictures.” I suppose normal tourists don’t photograph something a prosaic as men working. But here’s the thing: This was in the morning.
When I returned in the evening the sidewalk looked untouched, no fresh pavement. I thought; “I must have the wrong street.” Next day a line of bicycle stands had appeared, as if they were always there. So I squinted: the squares looked dusty, even showing green quaint green algae. It’s as if the workers had some sort of tool to lift the squares and then replace them. Sans jackhammers. Or did they keep a stack of suitably aged squares on hand? I wish I had asked. Incidentally, I saw a street sweeper machine, with two swirling brushes in front: an incongruously small machine, barely wider than the man sitting in it, narrower than a car. But the street was rather narrow, so I guess the machine was sensible.
Sidewalks here are amply graced with periodic trees, set in big squares: Never of wood chips, and seldom of orange dirt, rather, black pebbled rubber. Like beneath playground monkey bars. Delighted, I would go out to my way to take two steps on the rubber, as break for my poor tourist feet. And for fun!
Along the buildings, usually high up, are round blue heritage plaques. My hotel block had several, on the north side were two: Vladimir Lenin used to live here. Go figure. More amusing for me was seeing a plaque for a 19 century classic comic writer, “we flock to the gaslights,” (today neon) Jerome K. Jerome, author of (I have a folio copy) Three Men in A Boat, to say nothing of the dog.
I think Jerome would smile to see me noticing blue plaques, ornate Harrods and simple sidewalks.
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Sean Crawford
Safe inside a soaring tin can,
Far above freeze dried air
February, 2024
Blogger note: I’m writing this on the plane, in the gloom, on a little pull down seat tray. Being able to touch type (Dvorak) means I can restfully close eyes and type despite the turbulence. No need to strain my eyes to see the in-flight movie.
