Recalculating....
I recently got back from a short week in London, but I haven’t unpacked yet.
I’m not sure I’ve landed, actually.
I flew over for my younger son’s photography exhibition in Kensington and also managed to squeeze the annual Bradt Travel Writing Workshop into a rather tight schedule. I walked a daily average of nine miles and burned out my favorite pair of black suede boots between my deliciously quirky hotel in Chelsea and the gallery in Kensington and the seminar in Earl’s Court and The Surprise pub back in Chelsea, where my sons and I—and a handful of their friends—celebrated a very successful exhibition with an outrageous roast lamb Sunday lunch before we all boarded planes, trains, and buses to our next destinations.
It was a whirlwind six-day week of inspiration and of reconnection with a lot of precious links. Briefly, my world was a rapidly moving walkway and I didn’t want it to slow down. Gradually, one Uber and one train at a time, it did. I took one last (indulgent and entertaining) taxi ride to Heathrow, checked in early, and began my decompression process. I call it The Art of (Un)Packing. I’m working on a longer piece about this, with the same title: I like to take a journey or a trip apart piece by piece and look at everything I collected along the way in a real (or metaphorical) shopping bag—receipts, ticket stubs, dinner menus stained with red wine and notes. Memories. Intentions. Disappointments. Surprises. There are always surprises. I’m always prepared for those.
But I wasn’t prepared for the restlessness that set in before I’d even reached the departure gate. I was thrown off track by a sense of reluctance to leave London. The pull was powerful. Fierce, even. I didn’t want to leave although I had a beautiful destination to go on to. I gradually came to realize that forty years after leaving England I’d fallen helplessly in love with London.
Maybe I needed to double-check my directions. Maybe my GPS needed recalibrating.
I wept as the plane left the ground and rose into the fog over Heathrow.
By the time the plane began its descent into Boston I knew it was time for me to recalculate.
So many years, so many throbbing, bustling, exotic cities stamped in my passport. Paris. Amsterdam. New York. Boston. Hong Kong. Auckland. Buenos Aires. Santiago. Lima. Cairo. Kathmandu. Delhi.
But London!
The hum, the thrum, the beat; harmony, cacophony, sirens wailing. Pigeons cooing, shoes sliding on wet autumn leaves, the pshooot of a black umbrella being opened, rain drumming down on the umbrella. The mélange of European languages in my hotel lobby, the impossible din of pub chatter, the dead silence walking back to my Chelsea hotel at midnight.
I need London back in my life.
I’ll deal with the logistics later.
Meanwhile, to quote the GPS in my Jeep:
Recalculating… Recalculating…
http://www.thesurprisechelsea.co.uk/
Comfy-chic, a robust Malbec, an outrageously good roast lamb and a truly inspired vegetarian Sunday Roast.
https://myhotels.com/chelsea
Unbeatable location off the Fulham Road, hip vibe, simple but super room, funky and inviting common spaces.
https://lavendergreen.co.uk/
When I stay in a hotel for longer than two days I try to find fresh flowers to make my room feel – well, fresh. I actually went to the charming and knowledgeable people at Lavender Green for inspiration to ‘green’ my son’s photo exhibition gallery. One tall potted fig and some smaller potted companion plants later and my mission was accomplished. This plant and flower shop is a dream come true.
https://gailsbread.co.uk/bakeries/south-kensington/
Take your Gail’s super-wholesome fresh flaky crispy breakfast and coffee outside and sit at iron tables and chairs on the tiny patio. My son Giles and I shared breakfast in the drizzle under our umbrella on a mild late September morning. Memorable.
