Old China Plate
I sat down on the kerb facing the piazza in Covent Garden. In the middle of the square a magician prolonged his act with mildly risqué banter as the American tourist stood on a chair, blindfolded. Swords flashed and the music crescendo built as the performer seamlessly completed his piece de resistance.
In case you’re wondering, no one was sliced into a thousand American pieces.
The crowd applauded and I joined in. Having missed the first ¾ of the show, I wasn’t as invested in the event as those who had seen the whole thing – mine was simply polite applause. Like singing happy birthday at a party for someone you don’t like.
The anti-climax following the final part of the show was the awkward silence of street performers. Show over, the magician started packing up after he collected the hat with his money in it. A generous mixture of notes and coins, the weather on this sunny April morning had brought out more tourists than normal – his payment was more than adequate.
Watching him pack away was akin to the awkward moments after sex – climax over, both parties just wanted to get the hell out of there. He packed quickly and I joined the milieu of thronging visitors visually devouring this not-so-English part of London.
Yes I’d seen Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace and Big Ben – well, technically, I hadn’t actually seen Big Ben because “Ben” is the bell in the tower, not the clock. But you know what I mean.
In case you’re wondering, I read that in the tourist guide I had.
I’d been impressed by Tower Bridge, engaged by the Beefeaters at the Tower of London and enthralled by the climb to the top of St Paul’s. But Covent Garden was the place the really interested me – a little piece of European culture in the heart of the capital of England. The cobbled pathways were bordered by roped off alfresco dining, metal tables teetered on the stones, glasses of wine wobbled as the tables rocked on the uneven surface.
I entered a book-store – cheap second-hand novels lined the walls and were stacked with uneven carelessness that the OCD part of my nature screamed at me to “sort this shit out”! The books had that yellowing of pages that seemed to eat into the book from the edge, age and use aiding the process. I picked up a copy of “Lullaby” by Chuck Palahniuk – the only one of his books I hadn’t read. Every few chapters or so, the corner of the page had a crease in it – the place where the previous reader had paused and marked the page without need for a bookmark.
I fell in love immediately.
My book’s previous lover had left his/her mark. It was a history of their reading habits. Sometimes the folds were only a chapter apart (a quick chapter before going to bed), sometimes three or four (maybe a few chapters on a train on the way to work). This was an encrypted tale within the book – an obscured detective story that dared me to solve it. Alas, my detecting skills are nowhere near those of that most famous of London detectives, Sherlock Holmes (a man who locale I had visited only the day before).
Seeing this history was like seeing the places where your lover’s ex-lover had previously kissed, caressed and aroused. It was akin to seeing the sleeping habits of the last person to sleep in your hotel room. It was like the service history of your car, filled in by the previous owner. That detail, that insight into minutia.
Yes, in case you’re wondering, I bought the book.
Cafes and restaurants were filling fast, the clock had ticked past midday. I browed shops, drank expensive coffee, and bought virtually nothing. I was devouring everything for free – the smells of the meals being delivered by bustling waiters, the sounds of jugglers, acrobats and buskers, they all filled me up. A Chinese man played some bizarre stringed instrument but, when I went to film him, he stopped and pointed to his hat for cash. And refused to play any more until money was deposited.
Yes, in case your wondering, I paid him.
My walk through Soho and back towards Oxford Street took me down Carnaby Street – the chic heart of fashion as it had been since the 1960’s. Expensive designer shops nestled next to retro comic stores and cult t-shirt shops full of hairy hipsters looking for an obscure Big Lebowski T-shirt or unopened Star Wars figurine from the late 1970’s. I knew this because I was one of them (managed to pick up a Basil Fawlty Coaster and t-shirt with old-school Subbuteo players on it).
I stopped into a small pub, the black wooden ceiling brushing my hair as I stooped to get inside. This was neither the first nor last pub I would frequent in my time in London – my favourite being the Old Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street. Two levels below ground and the building itself was built over 100 years before my own country was even discovered. Incredibly good hand-drawn bitters sold for less than 4 pounds and walking down the narrow, low, timber stair case into the subterranean bowels of this ancient establishment I felt right at home.
Yes, in case you’re wondering, I did have more than one beer in there.
This was my first visit to England – the land of my maternal family – and it felt like I had come home. From the moment we caught the cab at the airport to the last train ride out of town, it felt like London was welcoming me back with open arms – the prodigal returned. Walking the streets, visiting the local pubs, having a chat with a few regulars at the bar…it just seemed to fit.
My Australian accent started banter about cricket, about convicts, boomerangs and cold beer.
About the number of dangerous animals and insects in Australia that want to kill and/or eat you.
About shark attacks, venomous snakes and drop bears.
In case you’re wondering, there’s approximately 35 people in London who believe that drop bears are real and I instructed them to tell anyone they know who is visiting Australia to look out for them. I told them Australian’s don’t tell tourists about killer drop bears – it’s our sick sense of humour. I was doing them a favour.
I was surprised at the ignorance and knowledge of some people:
- No, we don’t ride kangaroos to work.
- Yes, the Emu and Kangaroo are the only animals who can’t walk backwards which is why we have them on the coat of arms.
- No, we don’t call them shrimps – they’re bloody prawns.
- Yes, Emus and Kangaroos are delicious when cooked properly.
The friendliness of the people was the most refreshingly amazing part of the trip for me – these weren’t the miserable, cold, cynical and Aussie-hating bastards that I had been told were still left in the old Dart. These people were open, honest and willing to help. The interaction with local people can make or break a place and that certainly helped with London – it just fitted perfectly.
In case you’re wondering, yes, it felt like I’d finally come home.
Maybe it was the fact that I had superb weather with virtually no rain?
Maybe it was the fact that I was on holiday so the stresses of daily life were of no consequence to me?
Or maybe it was just the beer?
Either way, I know I’ll be back one day. And, when I am, I’m sure that I’ll welcome her warm embrace with a generous hug, a flirty kiss and a cheeky beer or three.
Cheers
