The city of London has been growing since the time of Roman occupation two thousand years ago, and it’s the world’s most visited city according to people who keep up with that sort of thing. Those same smart people also state that 300 languages are spoken by the residents of modern-day London, and I think about 295 of them are spoken in the neighborhood in which my family temporarily resides. I enjoy reading historical fiction, and one of my favorite books is London, by Edward Rutherfurd, a British-born master researcher and story teller. I recommend this book highly to anyone interested in learning the history of this great city without falling asleep on the pages of a dry textbook. Rutherfurd’s novel Sarum is another favorite of mine. It explores the history and settlement of southern England around the Salisbury plain—also worth checking out.
Overall, with the exception of the soaring icons of British history, London architecture is low and chunky with buildings of varying heights placed together like Legos in the hands of a toddler—perhaps the zoning committees hold their meetings over multiple pints at the local pub. One of the things I enjoy the most about visiting large cities is turning a corner while out walking and being presented with a street scene unlike anything with which I’m familiar, and one that is indicative of life in that particular part of the world. London has a lot of those views, and the contrast of the old and new is striking. One of the best examples I’ve seen in our time here was walking the Millennium Bridge and turning around to behold the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral looming over the buildings of modern commerce. Colorful storefronts line the twisting streets of London, their signage offering everything from halal meats to diet cloudy lemonade—that’s a thing here. I enjoy spotting the pub fronts adorned with black lacquered frames, gold lettered trim, and baskets of red and purple flowers—many establishments curiously named with couplets like The Pig and Whistle. Some of these pubs have been around for centuries satisfying the thirst for cask ales and friendly conversation. A stroll down any given avenue will also reveal a graceful stone church or hotel dropped in the middle of a long housing row. A visit inside just about any building reveals the signs of age like undulating plaster ceilings or stress cracks in the masonry and corners full of random pipes and wires showing the effort to preserve an existing structure while cobbling the centuries together.
The streets around central London are litter free and pose no distraction from the iconic structures and attractions. Venturing out in any direction from Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, and Trafalgar Square, things quickly get real. Despite mini-billboards touting the benefits of using the bins, litter is prevalent, and the smells of the city become more concentrated into Eau d’London. One can detect exhaust fumes, sulfur from the sewers, cigarette smoke (they smoke in public here, horrors), perfume, pastries, garlic, curry, and the heady tang of urine. Homeless people, mostly men, sleep in doorways on mats made from cardboard boxes and newspaper, some sitting by their custom dwellings holding cans out for spare change. I’m surprised at how many of them have dogs leashed to nearby poles and sewer grates in order to keep their only companions from running away. I’ve dropped money in some of their cans, usually to get rid of the chump change in my pocket, not wanting to part with coins of greater worth, to my shame. People are everywhere, moving at a great pace in all directions, and they are much more likely to openly curse you for being in the way than to offer a simple “excuse me.”. I’m generally in a state of cluelessness, and my tendency is to be nice to everyone, so I’ve been openly cursed numerous times mostly by people under twenty-five. I’m not complaining, just bearing witness to life in an ancient city, home to eight million people, all made in the image of God, struggling to make their way in a world that pushes back—hard.
London has survived fires, plagues, and the Sex Pistols—the inhabitants are tough with national pride flowing hot in their veins. After all that social upheaval and political strife, most still find time to chat politely over tea and biscuits. The best place to view the many ethnic groups here in London is the tube. The people living here are constantly on the move, and the underground rail lines are the main arteries from the city center to the outlying areas. Muslim men in their ankle-length galabiyas and kufi caps sit next to young bankers dressed in slate-blue tailored suits with latte-brown leather shoes. Most of the young men have beards or three days' worth of stubble on their chins, while the men over fifty tend to be clean shaven. Social contradictions are prevalent as tattooed and pierced young people sit talking politics while matrons in print dresses tap their smart phones. Through all this mish-mash of cultures, the crisp, refined sound of the British accent prevails after centuries of rulers, wars, and trends. My little family sits there on the train trying to be inconspicuous with our matching orange daypacks.
Some of the world’s most famous and priceless treasures are kept in London, and the weight of the responsibility of keeping them safe must be burdensome, though tempered perhaps by a sense of duty to preserve them. On our third and final visit to the British Museum, we saw a 500-year-old Samurai sword that was so shiny and bright, it looked as if it had been forged the day before. Beside it in perfect condition was a complete set of armor in worn by a Samurai centuries ago. The Room of Enlightenment was the last area we tackled in the museum, and we found ourselves lost in the world’s largest, most varied cabinet of curiosities. King George III’s coin collection was in there along with his books on numismatics. Ancient verdigris-stained Etruscan battle helmets and swords are stacked on shelves beside display boxes full of exotic extinct birds stuffed by a 19th century taxidermist; temple bricks from the fertile crescent proclaim the honor of ancient kings including Nebuchadnezzar; the list could continue for thousands of pages just from this one amazing room.
The treasures of London are not limited to coins and ancient statues—a visit to the British Library opened our eyes to the wealth of the literary world as one large room in this modern archive contains the stuff of legend. In one corner, Mozart’s personal music diary sits beside handwritten pieces of music by Beethoven, Bach, Chopin, and the original Messiah by Handel. In another corner, one of the few surviving Gutenberg Bibles is there along with many other rare, sacred texts. One of only four surviving original copies of the Magna Carta begins a row containing letters from kings and queens and Florence Nightingale’s field notes. The one-thousand-year-old pages from the ONLY Beowulf manuscript are in plain view in this room. There are handwritten texts by Oscar Wilde, Thomas Hardy, Jane Austen, and Ian Fleming—it was a treat to read his musings on the city of Berlin through the eyes of James Bond. There are original drawings by Leonardo DaVinci, including one that provides historical intrigue concerning his bitter rivalry with Michelangelo. We walked open-mouthed from one unbelievable display to the next. While I appreciated the significance of all the priceless pages in this room, my favorite items were the complete lyrics to "A Hard Day’s Night" written by John Lennon on the back of his son’s birthday card and the verses of "Michelle" scribbled by Paul McCartney on an envelope. Did these two items change the world like some of the other rare pages in this room? Does their significance pale beside a letter from Queen Elizabeth I? That kind of debate holds no interest for me—I just like the fact that a moment of epiphany for a creative person seeking inspiration can must be contained by a napkin or the closest scrap of paper within arm’s reach before the moment vanishes.
Stepney Green Station
Over the past two weeks, our little slice of the Stepney Green borough became more familiar, and we found comfort there when returning to our flat at night after a long day spent in greater London or on longer field trips. We’ve come a long way since our first night here, arriving in the dark to dirty streets, run-down buildings, and stares from locals who can spot newcomers a kilometer away. Most of the buildings in our neighborhood are ugly, tenement-type structures, four stories high and shabby with age. The alleys and walkways surrounding the buildings are overgrown with weeds and litter-strewn with paper and wine bottles. There are no active homeowners' associations here to make sure that everyone collects the trash cans from the street in a timely manner and that all the front doors are painted the same shade of Charleston green. I don’t think the door to our flat has been painted since 1965. We felt afraid that first night, looking over our shoulders as I fumbled with the keys, and then slammed the door behind us to shut out the gangs that were surely there to rob us of our laptops and credit cards in their RFID blocking protectors. Noise from cars and crowds of people comes in through our windows at all times of the day and night, but we’ve learned to sleep through the cacophony—even the most heated domestic disputes delivered in rapid fire Arabic. Now we’re comfortable walking to the library or the market, and the twenty minute journey to the takeout fish-and-chip restaurant has become a much anticipated activity. We’ve worked our way up to the “friendly wave” stage with the flat full of eastern Europeans next door who like to venture outside at 6:30 in the morning to start drinking and engaging in loud conversation. One of them is a master guitarist, playing well into the night. Another one is an aspiring artist, and we’ve enjoyed watching him paint a desert scene complete with a saguaro cactus on the door of the shed behind their flat. The things that made us fearful that first night are just the normal machinations of an old east-end neighborhood, and we’ve just had to find our way into the workings of the gears.
Our Neighbors' Shed
Our Neighborhood
We spent our last afternoon in London visiting the Churchill War Rooms, Sir Winston’s underground hideout during World War II that looks pretty much the same as it did seventy years ago. The admission was a little pricey, but we paid it knowing the history we would learn here was invaluable. In 2005, Queen Elizabeth II dedicated The Winston Churchill Museum as part of the War Rooms, and it was extremely well curated. Churchill was one of those larger-than-life characters who figured greatly in the history of England and the lives of her citizens. Every aspect of his life was broken down into five chapters, and we spent just as much time in that section of the museum as we did in the War Rooms. I was surprised to learn how many times Churchill went from being loved by the people to being despised by the people. He was also an accomplished writer and painter, and my favorite part of the museum was a proposal for a contract from a publisher outlining specific details and a payment of 20,000 pounds for a new book. I won’t go into detail on this, but check out the picture—he didn’t finish the book until the 1950’s.
Proposal to Winston Churchill
With an excellent audio guide for the War Rooms, we spent an hour roaming the tight underground quarters that housed Churchill, his cabinet, his wife, and his staff during long stretches of the war. How they managed to run the war using their limited technology is a wonder. Joseph and Deveny tried their hands at using an Imperial manual typewriter, and I now I wish I had taken a video to share the hilarity as mayhem ensued. The Map Room is the high point of the exhibit; it doesn’t disappoint as it is shown exactly as it was when the last man out locked the door right after VJ day. We backtracked to the cafe in the museum to get some cokes and eat our last packed lunch. We ended up sitting next to an American couple visiting from Texas who just happened to know our senior pastor at church back home—go figure. We enjoyed talking with them about England, homeschool, and places to which we had all traveled.
After leaving the War Rooms, we walked a short distance to Parliament Square and sat for an hour in the grass feeding the pigeons and gazing upon the tower that houses Big Ben for the last time. There were people everywhere laughing and taking pictures and enjoying the parts of England with which everyone is most familiar. It’s easy to get caught up in all the glory of England especially when watching the last winds of summer snap the Union Jack crisply back and forth over the Houses of Parliament. We saw most of the things in London that for good reason one is supposed to see, but with two full weeks we were able to dig a little deeper and live the English life for a bit. We saw many treasures during our stay, but the memories we made in London with each other are the real treasures. Now we’re excited about heading off to Paris
Sad to Leave our English Garden
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