Waiting for a Bed

As trips go, it could have been much worse. John and I left early Wednesday morning from Medford.

We flew first to Denver, then to Chicago, and finally to London. We left at five in the morning yesterday and arrived at just before six today. Adjusting for the time changes, that meant 17 hours of travel. I knew it would be a difficult day for John, but I was surprised at how determined and resilient he was. 

We cleared customs in record time at Heathrow. I had arranged a ride from the airport, not wanting to deal with finding our way to the train and then having to change trains or get a cab at Paddington. But our driver was not there when we arrived at the meeting place, and John’s determination to be good-humored began to fade. The lack of sleep was clearly catching up with him. The driver finally arrived almost 45 minutes late and hustled us off into his Kia, obviously annoyed at John’s wheelchair. 

The trip into London took over 90 minutes. I wondered if the route had partly been chosen to avoid the congestion pricing and ULEZ (Ultra Low Emission Zone) charges. Perhaps GPS was actually helping him just avoid traffic. Either way, it was a long, boring ride and on a gray, drizzly morning, London looked particularly bleak. John’s mood did not improve. 

We finally arrive at our London accommodation, the Cleveland Residences Russell Square. I had picked it partly on the basis of this picture on Booking. 

The price, about £680 for four nights, was also appealing. I had been warned, of course, by the management that they could not guarantee that our room would be ready before mid-afternoon. And, indeed, the room was not ready. A cheerful lad who looked like a young James Corden, took our luggage for storage. He told us that the room would definitely be ready by four, but if it was ready earlier he would try to send us a message. John was not happy. He wanted to take a nap. 

We went off to explore the neighborhood. By this time, the clouds were breaking up, and things were looking a little better. Russell Square, the heart of the Bloomsbury district, was at the end of the street. 

I read John some of the signage about the history of the park and noted how old the plane trees were. I was faking cheerfulness and John knew it. We left the park and wandered about Fitzrovia. It’s still classic London. 

I knew that the British Museum was right off the square, and John was quite amenable to going there. We decided to go straight for the Egyptian stuff on the third floor. When you’re dead tired, why not spend time with the mummies?

I was surprised by how cheery these dead people seemed, but maybe that was just because I was not feeling that way. 

I was surprised to discover this buxom girl sarcophagus. 

John was even more fascinated by the real exposed mummy. 

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The more I thought about it, lying down with an eyeshade did not seem like a bad thing at all. 

We pushed on through the Persian rooms.

and took the lift up to the small Japanese exhibit on the top floor. John liked this elegant boddhisatva. 

I noticed this portrait of Dosho, the founder of Japanese Zen Buddhism.

Maybe I was just projecting my own feelings, but he seemed more irritated than enlightened. 

After a little over an hour in the museum, John was feeling bored. We went down to the ground floor and into the impressive courtyard. I think the museum largely makes up for free admission with the extremely overpriced food sold at the cafeteria here. The gift shop is wonderful, but £14 for a refrigerator magnet? We did break down and buy a Coke Zero for £3 because John needed to take his medication, and we shared the soda looking at some Haida totems. 

In the center of the courtyard is the early 19th century reading room. It is not nearly as impressive at the main reading room in Washington. Of course I am a little biased: the best teacher training I ever had was at the Library of Congress. But the British room is still beautiful. 

From the Great Courtyard, we left through the main entrance onto Great Russell Street. The British do want you to know that certain things are big and important, despite their reputation for understatement. 

A group of children was lined up for a visit. 

I thought about all the field trips I had led. I was always glad I had given the children the experience, but I never enjoyed them while they were happening. I suspect this woman felt the same. 

By this time, both of us were ready to fall into bed, but it was still not even noon. We started walking towards the theater district about a mile away. I caught sight to the old Postal Tower, once the biggest eyesore in the capital until the erection of some of the newer ones like “the Gherkin” or “the Shard.” I like the way that the French have isolated their modernist atrocities in La Defence and wish the English had done something similar. 

In Soho square John had me posed with a silly sculpture. 

I had figured that John wanted to go all the way to Leicester Square, but after a brief stop on Old Compton Street, once the center of gay life in London, he wanted to go back. It was actually pretty warm by this time and I pushed him up Charing Cross and Shaftesbury towards our accommodations. I was tired and he was testy by the time we reached Russell Square. He was sure that there was a Japanese restaurant just by our place, but the only thing I could find was a takeout sushi spot. It looked exactly like the stuff they sell at Safeway, and we decided to pass on it. Instead, I took him to the restaurant at the hotel a block from our place, the Kimpton Fitzrovia where rooms go for about £800 a night. 

We had a great meal of extremely well-prepared British food. John had Shepherd’s Pie, and I had a perfectly fried piece of haddock swimming in a sea of lightly crushed minty peas. I thought about taking pictures, but that just seems too Instagramy for me. 

Unfortunately, John’s blood pressure often craters after he has had a big meal, and we had a bad episode of post-prandial hypotension. I managed to get him into his chair and back to the Cleveland Residences. A young lady who seemed to be the manager helped me with the wheelchair as I walked John up to five steps to the foyer. She showed us to our room, and as soon as she had left John fell onto the bed and did not wake up for about three hours. 

We are going to try to catch up on sleep tonight so that tomorrow we are more cheerful and might even be able to catch a play.