London, England

Near where the chartered Thames does flow

An endless array of vertical shadows on watercolor gray, all crosshatched with vapor trails at their ragged tips.

Forlorn memories, haunting our dreams like a fleeting glimpse of Earth's favored.

A charcoal flicker between the bedimmed beneath and a suspiciously innocent sky.



My decision to visit London was completely impromptu (in truth, I was mostly interested in breaking my own land-speed record via the Eurostar Chunnel train), and accompanied two fundamental expectations. First, that I would find some exceptional teas. And second, that I would have to endure Yakety Sax playing in my mind on perpetual repeat. Only one of these came to pass.

I suppose there's only so much that anyone can do with crumbled leaves and hot water.



The British are a total parody of The British. Among the more amusing evidence of this is that the entire city of London seems to insist on being my overprotective English nanny for my stay's duration. Every corner reminds me to look before crossing the street. Signs on the Thames footbridges remind me that London is occasionally very windy, and to hold onto railings as I cross. Even the computerized subway voice comments that "in such warm weather, you should carry a bottle of water."

I keep expecting fire hydrants to tell me I'm special and bake me cookies. Er, biscuits.



I walk through a string of London's Royal Parks, following a beautiful precision of geometric pathways that never fail to converge on a pavilion of activity. Hot dog vendors urge me to try their brand-new "New York" style concessions. Street musicians deliver abrupt cacophonies from fiddles, tin whistles and bagpipes. Ticket scalpers suggest that I see Neil Young in concert tonight for only double the normal price. It is the ice cream stand that delivers me from such frivolity and madness.

I am sitting on the steps leading to an enormous statue commemorating the courage of London's air force in the second World War. The monument's shadow stretches far - it drapes over one of the park's vividly-colored structures, where three small children scramble the wrong way up the playground slide, screaming wildly. I slowly consume my mint-chocolate chip ice cream and waffle cone, and for just a moment I terribly miss my childhood.



I sit beneath the Millennium Bridge, just outside the (free!) Tate Museum, gazing skyward as enormous raindrops begin to fall, landing with audible splashes all around me. Within minutes, the dark sky has begun to split, issuing tiny violet flashes alongside the sharp cracks of thunder and hushed awe from my fellow onlookers.

It's magnificent. I don't think I quite understand London, but this I get.