Mind The Gap

London, Day 2.
This was a Monday, and as such the tube trains are packed to bursting and school groups are out en masse. And there I was in the midst of it all, hunting for a hospital. But at least I had a plan. Step one, get to the Embassy. Step two, get a list of local physicians who take foreign patients. Step three, find one, and for the love of all things holy, get meds to make the upper respiratory infection from hell return from whence it came. This proved to be a bit of a challenge, but at least it was one I could completely understand in my own language. (The week before I had lived through a kind of mini-nightmare trying to track down meds for my host, Carrie, at a Swiss apothecary. Not fun.) But with the aid of a chipper American guy in HR who wanted to know if I'd ever been to Mardi Gras, I was once again on my way. Four hours and an ungodly sum of British pounds later, I was happily diagnosed and medicated. And just in time to enjoy the customary September showers that turn London into the worst version of itself. So in the grey and the gloom I returned to my hotel and watched High Society on cable. Not what I originally had in mind, but not a bad way to spend an evening.

Day 3, spontaneous activity of the most wonderful kind. 

While I am not normally an early riser, I made an exception on Tuesday for the promise of continental breakfast--only to find that it was little more than corn flakes and bread. No toast. Ah, the echoes of BISP were strong in my heart and only getting stronger! Undeterred, I took to the tube and gave myself a mild shock at how easily the city layout all came back to me. I had neither my trusty red tourist map nor a pocket tube guide, and was pleased to realize that was fine with me. I was in no hurry, and the weather was surprisingly temperate, and so I made my leisurely way amongst the suits and camera-laden Asians towards the galleries in the heart of the city. Remembering too late that nothing opens "early" in this country, I spent a few hours wandering St. Martin's churchyard and sitting in the shadow of Lord Nelson on his column before spending a pleasant morning in the company of Turner, Rembrandt, and the likenesses of Byron and George III. After a truly terrible midday concert at St.-Martin's-in-the-field I walked south along the high street to take in the view from the river. While there are innumerable rivers in this world more attractive than the Thames, part of me finds it one of the most alluring bodies of water known to man. Blame the literature, I guess. In my customary way I spent the afternoon wandering the south bank. It has none of the old charms of historic London, nor the speed and glamour of Oxford Street, nor even the tourist appeal of Covent Garden (save the eyesore that is the "Eye") and yet I love it all the same. I crossed back to the North bank at Westminster Bridge in time to make the evensong service in the Abbey, one of my favorite London haunts. The music in that church, older by far than anything made of stone and mortar in all of North America, has the power to lift the listener almost to the very rafters of its golden ceiling--and to feed the weary soul. 

Thus invigorated, I left the church and found myself a ration of sustenance of a different sort, though no less appreciated. 

Wandering into the bustling Wagamama under the Jubilee Bridge made me laugh out loud in memory of BISP, while my heart ached for distant company and conversation. (I was, however, supremely glad that there was no one to openly insult my complete lack of skill with a pair of chopsticks. I have resigned myself to the fact that there are just some things I shall never master. Arithmetic, chopstick etiquette, and French braids being principally among them.) 

As it was still early when I left the noodle bar, I figured I'd chance it and walk in an eastern direction toward the National to see if anything struck my fancy. Two shows were running and both appeared sold out, but knowing how the system works, I approached the box office, my as-yet unexpired international student ID in hand, and asked about the new play "Or You Could Kiss Me," produced by the same company that did "War Horse" and "Nation." As expected, shitty seats for the under-25 crowd remained, and, a mere ten quid later, I was set to witness the evening production--the only thing about which I knew was that it centered on two old men and that there would doubtless be puppets. I was correct on both counts. It was, as with most national productions, odd. But I liked it, and wished, as I usually do after seeing a movie or other cultural piece of entertainment alone, that I had someone to discuss it with. Turns out that a young couple that I followed out of the theatre were on both of my tube trains back to Bayswater, and so they shared their opinions with me and I commented here and there. It wasn't Ebert and Roper  by a long shot, but it was nice to decompress and to share, and to be reminded yet again that solitude is, like everything else, merely temporary. 

The next few days were a blur of retracing steps of years past and even plotting a new corse here and there. (A little advice--do not do this in the pouring rain at night without looking where you're going, as it may result in more human contact with lake Erie-sized puddles than is ever desired. Just saying.) By the end of my trip I concluded that London is indeed "my city." I love its culture, its food, its scale and history and scope and its people--most of them, anyway. I am always sad to leave it. Especially when my last memory of the place is in the confines of the international wing of terminal 1, in which nothing exists save the slew of designer shops and one painfully crowded Cafe Nero. But at least there are roast chicken crisps. (Don't fight me on this. They're good. I swear.) But last looks not withstanding, I boarded my plane back to Zurich with a sigh and cracked my new book, "On Chesil Beach." Desperate for more reading material in my native tongue that is a bit more complex than Grimm's Fairytales, I scoured the shelves of WH Smith for ANYTHING that was not recommended by reader's lists or emblazoned with hot pink letters having something to do with Mrs. Darcy or some equally offensive garbage masquerading as literature. (I know, I know. Book snob. Rant almost over.) After much hunting I settled on some McEwan and a reject copy of "Little Women." I don't know if it's just that I have more time to think and process what I read without fear of a fearsome Asian man judging my responses thereto or what, but I've felt a much deeper connection to what I read of late. I feel the childlike kinship with character and author that I did when I was 18 and that I was sure I had lost forever upon graduation last May when I couldn't even bring myself to read a few pages a day. I guess I'm just grateful that one of the tangible things that this adventure has rekindled within me is my love of books. If that is to be my only treasure brought back from foreign lands, I won't find myself wanting. 

But enough of that. Back to the travelog. 

My arrival in Zurich was decidedly less straightforward that my departure. My plane was late, and therefore cost me the chance to make my train. I half-heartedly enquired about hotels in the area, but was told that Zurich is always crowded. As everything around me began to shut down for the night (this was around 11 or so) I made my way to the main train station, the better to contemplate my prospects. I had no way of contacting Chrigl (the second time in my life my phone dies and I have no way in which to charge it) and no means of transportation until at least 6am. "Oh well," I told myself, "something to write home about." And so, ipod full of Eastmountainsouth and the Weepies, I lay my head on a bench near a well lit coffee shop and tucked in for the night. 

Around 2am I rolled over to find I had company--a guy in his late 20s who I could only assume was American or either a very dirty European lay on the bench across from mine, sleeping in his whitewashed holy jeans and snoring thunderously into his own armpit. My other companion had selected the bench directly beside me, why I could not say, as her head was dangerously close to my unshod, travel-worn toes. She looked to be about 40, and none too pleased with her evenings accommodations. I offered to help her when it became clear she wanted to move her bench as far as possible from our oblivious fellow, now flat on his back with his mouth lulling wide like a dosing hound. She looked at me quizzically and said something in French to the effect of "no thanks" and I shrugged, returning to my tunes and the sleep I knew would come at the price of a serious back ache when morning came. And come it did...finally. Around 5am I peeked up from my makeshift bed to see agitated women opening the little window of their coffee stand and turning on lights. I shook myself awake, gathered my belongings, and promptly supplied myself with a king-sized dose of hot chocolate. For once in my life not being a coffee person paid off, for while I saw other customers leaving the line with disgruntled looks and tossing around comments like "weak" and "blech!" I started off the morning please to discover that pretty much everything in Switzerland that involves chocolate, from bars and muffins to toasty beverages, is just plain great. 

I don't know that I'll ever be able to look at a Hershey bar the same way....though I think I know what I want my first meal to be upon my return to the states. After all, who doesn't love a little rasher of chocolate covered bacon a la Katie and Lauren?