London, Day 2. Monday, 1st May
May. 2nd, 2006 06:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelleMonday, 1st May
Y’know that really funny joke about what if you went to some fabulous city, and it was closed? Yeah. Don’t expect to visit those special little shops in Soho on a Bank Holiday. Better yet, check first and see when a Bank Holiday IS. Best yet, try to retain the brains G-d gave you and remember that throughout most of Europe from time immemorial, May Day is A Big Thing. Duh.
So I did find the fabric shops I was looking for, don’t get me wrong. In fact, most of the other places I went to today were open. When I finally got there. I napped most of yesterday, I think, and then went to bed around midnight, only to sleep brokenly through to 11-something. I proceeded to take one of the most gloriously extended showers I’ve taken in ages, yum yum. And then, like a fish into the river, out the door and back into London.
I started at Picadilly again, but this time, I went straight up Oxford Street, and turned left into Soho. Like I used to do when I lived in Sarasota, I planned to very simply lose myself in the streets until I found myself where I wanted to be. Sure enough, my careful stalking of Berwick Street netted me my prey before too long. Unfortunately, my trophies were uncatchable: every damned shop I wanted was closed. Hurrah. So, being as there was really not much of a choice otherwise, I decided to go shopping.
London seems bigger, somehow, than it used to be. The enormous grey stone buildings loom like the walls of a canyon, and I can only suppose it’s because I’m unnerved, on some urban-primal level, to see such impressive edifices on a curve. Streets in Philadelphia, New York, Washington, you name it: they’re all straight. Angled, maybe, but straight. Not here, of course. There’s a street squiggling away behind every building, too. Alleyways where in the States you’d put your rubbish bins for the men to collect at 4am have impressive-sounding names here, even if they go nowhere.
I found several places I need to check out tomorrow, and put that down as pretty much all I could do for today. Then I struck out again for either Oxford or Regent Street, to see what was there. I was both surprised and not to find many of the same huge chains as we have at home: Gap, Baby Gap, Bennetton, Nike, H&M, etc. Of course, some of the shops here are native, not the other way ‘round. But the one import that did surprise me was a huge Urban Outfiters. Since when?
As I was trotting down the street, looking, I must assume, dewy-eyed, a perky and willowy young woman stopped me and asked me, “Excuse me, but can I ask—where do you get your hair done?”
Now, I realize this’ll only be funny to some, but to me, I very nearly laughed in her face. Done? In the bathroom, with a towel. A comb, maybe, a few hours later if I’m really feeling like a slattern. In other words, I NEVER look as if I’ve had my hair “done.” So I smiled at her and said, “Philadelphia.” “Ohhh,” she replied, “You’re just visiting? How long?” At this point, I could see the large, invisible hook, and said, “Just a few days. Sorry.” She smiled back and wished me a nice visit. Even called after me, as I was making my escape, “I like your dress, too!” Which made me grin back and cheerily thank her, as it’s the black one I finished two nights ago. Still, wow. I haven’t seen that particular…ruse? Ploy? Act?...in years. Thank you, but no: I don’t want to come to your prayer meetings. I don’t want to disappear into your church. You kids have fun. Bye.
As I skipped away from her, right there on the corner, I discovered one of my other destinations: Liberty’s of London, that Tudor-beamed anomally in a forest of stone offices and shops. I remember seeing it once when I lived here, but I’d never been in. And, as I discovered, that’s a shame. Because it’s gobstoppingly gorgeous inside.
Wood and polished brass and white plaster walls: it made me think of Trimingham’s, in Bermuda. And there’s probably a good reason for that: it’s certainly been here long enough to be the inspiration for any number of shops worldwide. One could almost believe the Tudor façade isn’t mock at all—if it weren’t that pretty much nothing that old still stands after the 1665 fire that burned down nearly all of London. But even the elevators have gorgeous linenfold panels in their walls, and the wood of the atrium is curled and spiraled in dark, lovely patterns. And the worn, shining treads of the stairs pass beneath hand-embellished and leaded stained glass windows.
I went straight to the 4th floor—remembering this time, as I’d forgotten yesterday, that here they count floors ground, one, two, three, etc., so their fourth is our fifth—and stepped off into a miniature textile wonderland. Trims, yarn, thread, buttons, and, of course, the famous Liberty cotton prints.
It was about this time, sadly, I noticed two incredibly annoying things. One, that the poor skin on my legs was not happy with the thorough shaving I’d given it this morning, and I was beginning to feel like I’d been riding a horse made of burlap for an hour. Bareback. Second, somewhere, I’d picked up an enormous wad of chewing gum that decided to come sightseeing on my right shoe, and wanted to linger on the wooden floors if I stood still too long. Sigh. But somehow, I managed to find a collection of fabric I adored which, believe it or not, seemed to be the “economy” selection: whereas most of the prints I was seeing were £18 or £21 or more, the lovely cottons I was seeing here were $8 and £9 each. Still G-d-awful expensive, but not so terribly as the others. I’ll probably have to flatline them before I can use them, but they’re going to make gorgeous corsets. I saw a quilted one that made me think of a beautiful rainbow cotton corset I saw Greycat wearing once. I may have to make up one of these for myself. It was humourous—to me, at least—to see myself saying, “Um, I’m not good with metres. How much is…about this much?” I got a metre and a half of four different, rich prints. I’d been tempted by some silks in the front of the department, but I don’t know what I’ll see tomorrow, so I refrained. As it is, with some presents I also bought for my sister, my bag was heavy and costly enough.
I passed a pub called The Green Man as I wandered Soho again, and I was tempted by the associations, but I kept walking, not quite ready to stop yet. Sure enough, I soon found myself on Carnaby Street, which the flight attendant had suggested I prowl. Alas, no fabric stores, but I did find a pub called Shakespeare’s Head. I mean, come on, how can you resist? I didn’t. Maybe I should have, considering the burger I got, but I didn’t. The staff seemed a bit stressed, but I made it my personal mission to make the young possibly German lad behind the bar smile. Likewise with the rose-haired punkish woman who came to check on me several times, urging me towards the wickedness of dessert. But eventually I escaped, and set off for more exploring.
The idea was to aimlessly wander Oxford and Regent Streets until something struck me. I found, to my great surprise, I’m very bad at aimless. I always feel like I have to be going somewhere. Sometimes, I can be the Great Traveller, with no destination and no deadline to get there. And I’m not saying I couldn’t have done that today. But it’s much, much harder when all you can think about is your saddle sores and the wretchedly heavy shopping bag you’re carrying. Still, I was determined, if nothing else.
To my everlasting shame, however, I must admit I passed not once but perhaps three times the drool-inducing Mecca known as the Regent Street Apple Store. Perhaps it was my personal hairshirt distracting me, or the perky fisherwoman still out on the street, looking for recruits. (“Hello again!”) But once I realised that yes, I was seeing that seductive siren symbol, the white apple, floating in space above a giant faux bulletholed window, I decided to avoid the recruiter by dashing across Regent Street in the middle—not the wisest idea, but hey, it’s APPLE.
Unbelievable. Truly. They have a glass staircase to the second floor, where an open-backed theatre hosts workshops for Mac-toting audiences, led by a headsetted young Mac “Genius.” Downstairs—and everywhere else—is the Holy of Holies for everything iPod, first, then MacBook, iBook, PowerBook, Mac Mini, iLife, iSight—you name it. It was orgasmic. I had to yoink myself out of there by main force. Sweet G-d.
And then I just wandered. I went back and forth from the Oxford and Bond Street tube stations in search of Marks & Sparks, which I thought I’d missed in favour of an hour or so in Selfridge’s. After dropping £50 on stockings—why on earth didn’t I put them ON?— and having the devil’s own time getting someone to ring me up, and after finding gorgeous bras, but nothing I really wanted, I tried to go home only to find I’d missed M&S by a block. This, of course, after I’ve walked all the way back to the Tube. Back again, only to find that no, they really didn’t have anything I wanted. Sigh. So back yet again to the Tube. By this time, my arms were threatening revolt if I didn’t find a lackey or cabana boy to carry my damned bags.
Come to think of it, I did, for a brief moment. While passing an Arabian perfume store, I allowed myself to be lured in by a very nice young man who dabbed me with something exquisite, then asked me to come inside to sample more perfumes, and even offered to carry my bags in for me. His coworkers seemed surprised I said yes. Almost as surprised as I was to find I actually bought something. Another gift, so I shan’t say more for now.
So then, sweet G-d, home. I zipped around on the Tube like a pro—ridiculously proud of myself for not having to actually look like a tourist. I’m not sure why that’s such an issue with me, but there you are. I came home, exhausted. By now it was after 8pm, so I snoozed a bit. I shall say that I planned it thus, and you can’t make me say otherwise. But of course, by then, I was thinking I should eat. Ordering in from room service isn’t the most expensive thing I could do, but why, when there’s perfectly good Burger King at the door? So back I went—with stockings this time, dammit!—and wandered up and down the street for a moment, reluctant to come all this way just to eat KFC. In the end, I wound up having a gorgeous lamb curry at Illy. And a chocolate fudge cake to die for. That place may be breakfast in the morning. Which’ll probably be a late lunch by the time I wake.
So now it’s O’G-d O’Clock, and I should be asleep again. Tomorrow, it’s back to Soho for fabric, and if I can find it, Kensington Market to peruse boots. Today was only my first full day in London? Huh. Weird.
ETA: No wonder I can't find Kensington Market. It was pulled down in 2001. Hm. Camden Town, then!
PHOTOS! http://www.flickr.com/photos/ysobelle/sets/72057594123039810/
Y’know that really funny joke about what if you went to some fabulous city, and it was closed? Yeah. Don’t expect to visit those special little shops in Soho on a Bank Holiday. Better yet, check first and see when a Bank Holiday IS. Best yet, try to retain the brains G-d gave you and remember that throughout most of Europe from time immemorial, May Day is A Big Thing. Duh.
So I did find the fabric shops I was looking for, don’t get me wrong. In fact, most of the other places I went to today were open. When I finally got there. I napped most of yesterday, I think, and then went to bed around midnight, only to sleep brokenly through to 11-something. I proceeded to take one of the most gloriously extended showers I’ve taken in ages, yum yum. And then, like a fish into the river, out the door and back into London.
I started at Picadilly again, but this time, I went straight up Oxford Street, and turned left into Soho. Like I used to do when I lived in Sarasota, I planned to very simply lose myself in the streets until I found myself where I wanted to be. Sure enough, my careful stalking of Berwick Street netted me my prey before too long. Unfortunately, my trophies were uncatchable: every damned shop I wanted was closed. Hurrah. So, being as there was really not much of a choice otherwise, I decided to go shopping.
London seems bigger, somehow, than it used to be. The enormous grey stone buildings loom like the walls of a canyon, and I can only suppose it’s because I’m unnerved, on some urban-primal level, to see such impressive edifices on a curve. Streets in Philadelphia, New York, Washington, you name it: they’re all straight. Angled, maybe, but straight. Not here, of course. There’s a street squiggling away behind every building, too. Alleyways where in the States you’d put your rubbish bins for the men to collect at 4am have impressive-sounding names here, even if they go nowhere.
I found several places I need to check out tomorrow, and put that down as pretty much all I could do for today. Then I struck out again for either Oxford or Regent Street, to see what was there. I was both surprised and not to find many of the same huge chains as we have at home: Gap, Baby Gap, Bennetton, Nike, H&M, etc. Of course, some of the shops here are native, not the other way ‘round. But the one import that did surprise me was a huge Urban Outfiters. Since when?
As I was trotting down the street, looking, I must assume, dewy-eyed, a perky and willowy young woman stopped me and asked me, “Excuse me, but can I ask—where do you get your hair done?”
Now, I realize this’ll only be funny to some, but to me, I very nearly laughed in her face. Done? In the bathroom, with a towel. A comb, maybe, a few hours later if I’m really feeling like a slattern. In other words, I NEVER look as if I’ve had my hair “done.” So I smiled at her and said, “Philadelphia.” “Ohhh,” she replied, “You’re just visiting? How long?” At this point, I could see the large, invisible hook, and said, “Just a few days. Sorry.” She smiled back and wished me a nice visit. Even called after me, as I was making my escape, “I like your dress, too!” Which made me grin back and cheerily thank her, as it’s the black one I finished two nights ago. Still, wow. I haven’t seen that particular…ruse? Ploy? Act?...in years. Thank you, but no: I don’t want to come to your prayer meetings. I don’t want to disappear into your church. You kids have fun. Bye.
As I skipped away from her, right there on the corner, I discovered one of my other destinations: Liberty’s of London, that Tudor-beamed anomally in a forest of stone offices and shops. I remember seeing it once when I lived here, but I’d never been in. And, as I discovered, that’s a shame. Because it’s gobstoppingly gorgeous inside.
Wood and polished brass and white plaster walls: it made me think of Trimingham’s, in Bermuda. And there’s probably a good reason for that: it’s certainly been here long enough to be the inspiration for any number of shops worldwide. One could almost believe the Tudor façade isn’t mock at all—if it weren’t that pretty much nothing that old still stands after the 1665 fire that burned down nearly all of London. But even the elevators have gorgeous linenfold panels in their walls, and the wood of the atrium is curled and spiraled in dark, lovely patterns. And the worn, shining treads of the stairs pass beneath hand-embellished and leaded stained glass windows.
I went straight to the 4th floor—remembering this time, as I’d forgotten yesterday, that here they count floors ground, one, two, three, etc., so their fourth is our fifth—and stepped off into a miniature textile wonderland. Trims, yarn, thread, buttons, and, of course, the famous Liberty cotton prints.
It was about this time, sadly, I noticed two incredibly annoying things. One, that the poor skin on my legs was not happy with the thorough shaving I’d given it this morning, and I was beginning to feel like I’d been riding a horse made of burlap for an hour. Bareback. Second, somewhere, I’d picked up an enormous wad of chewing gum that decided to come sightseeing on my right shoe, and wanted to linger on the wooden floors if I stood still too long. Sigh. But somehow, I managed to find a collection of fabric I adored which, believe it or not, seemed to be the “economy” selection: whereas most of the prints I was seeing were £18 or £21 or more, the lovely cottons I was seeing here were $8 and £9 each. Still G-d-awful expensive, but not so terribly as the others. I’ll probably have to flatline them before I can use them, but they’re going to make gorgeous corsets. I saw a quilted one that made me think of a beautiful rainbow cotton corset I saw Greycat wearing once. I may have to make up one of these for myself. It was humourous—to me, at least—to see myself saying, “Um, I’m not good with metres. How much is…about this much?” I got a metre and a half of four different, rich prints. I’d been tempted by some silks in the front of the department, but I don’t know what I’ll see tomorrow, so I refrained. As it is, with some presents I also bought for my sister, my bag was heavy and costly enough.
I passed a pub called The Green Man as I wandered Soho again, and I was tempted by the associations, but I kept walking, not quite ready to stop yet. Sure enough, I soon found myself on Carnaby Street, which the flight attendant had suggested I prowl. Alas, no fabric stores, but I did find a pub called Shakespeare’s Head. I mean, come on, how can you resist? I didn’t. Maybe I should have, considering the burger I got, but I didn’t. The staff seemed a bit stressed, but I made it my personal mission to make the young possibly German lad behind the bar smile. Likewise with the rose-haired punkish woman who came to check on me several times, urging me towards the wickedness of dessert. But eventually I escaped, and set off for more exploring.
The idea was to aimlessly wander Oxford and Regent Streets until something struck me. I found, to my great surprise, I’m very bad at aimless. I always feel like I have to be going somewhere. Sometimes, I can be the Great Traveller, with no destination and no deadline to get there. And I’m not saying I couldn’t have done that today. But it’s much, much harder when all you can think about is your saddle sores and the wretchedly heavy shopping bag you’re carrying. Still, I was determined, if nothing else.
To my everlasting shame, however, I must admit I passed not once but perhaps three times the drool-inducing Mecca known as the Regent Street Apple Store. Perhaps it was my personal hairshirt distracting me, or the perky fisherwoman still out on the street, looking for recruits. (“Hello again!”) But once I realised that yes, I was seeing that seductive siren symbol, the white apple, floating in space above a giant faux bulletholed window, I decided to avoid the recruiter by dashing across Regent Street in the middle—not the wisest idea, but hey, it’s APPLE.
Unbelievable. Truly. They have a glass staircase to the second floor, where an open-backed theatre hosts workshops for Mac-toting audiences, led by a headsetted young Mac “Genius.” Downstairs—and everywhere else—is the Holy of Holies for everything iPod, first, then MacBook, iBook, PowerBook, Mac Mini, iLife, iSight—you name it. It was orgasmic. I had to yoink myself out of there by main force. Sweet G-d.
And then I just wandered. I went back and forth from the Oxford and Bond Street tube stations in search of Marks & Sparks, which I thought I’d missed in favour of an hour or so in Selfridge’s. After dropping £50 on stockings—why on earth didn’t I put them ON?— and having the devil’s own time getting someone to ring me up, and after finding gorgeous bras, but nothing I really wanted, I tried to go home only to find I’d missed M&S by a block. This, of course, after I’ve walked all the way back to the Tube. Back again, only to find that no, they really didn’t have anything I wanted. Sigh. So back yet again to the Tube. By this time, my arms were threatening revolt if I didn’t find a lackey or cabana boy to carry my damned bags.
Come to think of it, I did, for a brief moment. While passing an Arabian perfume store, I allowed myself to be lured in by a very nice young man who dabbed me with something exquisite, then asked me to come inside to sample more perfumes, and even offered to carry my bags in for me. His coworkers seemed surprised I said yes. Almost as surprised as I was to find I actually bought something. Another gift, so I shan’t say more for now.
So then, sweet G-d, home. I zipped around on the Tube like a pro—ridiculously proud of myself for not having to actually look like a tourist. I’m not sure why that’s such an issue with me, but there you are. I came home, exhausted. By now it was after 8pm, so I snoozed a bit. I shall say that I planned it thus, and you can’t make me say otherwise. But of course, by then, I was thinking I should eat. Ordering in from room service isn’t the most expensive thing I could do, but why, when there’s perfectly good Burger King at the door? So back I went—with stockings this time, dammit!—and wandered up and down the street for a moment, reluctant to come all this way just to eat KFC. In the end, I wound up having a gorgeous lamb curry at Illy. And a chocolate fudge cake to die for. That place may be breakfast in the morning. Which’ll probably be a late lunch by the time I wake.
So now it’s O’G-d O’Clock, and I should be asleep again. Tomorrow, it’s back to Soho for fabric, and if I can find it, Kensington Market to peruse boots. Today was only my first full day in London? Huh. Weird.
ETA: No wonder I can't find Kensington Market. It was pulled down in 2001. Hm. Camden Town, then!
PHOTOS! http://www.flickr.com/photos/ysobelle/sets/72057594123039810/
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-05-02 11:55 am (UTC)I'm glad you're having a good time. I love you!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-02 01:03 pm (UTC)No Kensington Market?? Suckage. Can't wait to see more pics, Hon! I am suck a photo slut.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-02 01:55 pm (UTC)Say hello to the ghosts at the pub for me, would you?
no subject
Date: 2006-05-02 05:08 pm (UTC)Don't go to sleep tooo early. What's it like at night?
no subject
Date: 2006-05-02 10:27 pm (UTC)Pwned by your Mom and Dad on LJ!
This is the stuff of ytmnd videos.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-03 01:34 am (UTC)Forgot
Date: 2006-05-02 05:42 pm (UTC)