Thrd Time’s A Charm
The perfect amount of times to visit a city is three. On the first you're struck by the fresh sense of newness, of possibility and wonder, yet to make memories that stick hard and fast. On the second you arrive with enough familiarity to navigate with a level of intentionality in the experiences that shape your stay. It's the third visit really in which you form your connection. "Welcome back," the city seems to say, for you already know many of its secrets. It has less to hide and you less to discover. You can chase that original feeling and also discover newness that excites and makes you feel alive.
My third time's a charm cities include Barcelona, Lisbon, Miami, Madrid*, and most recently London. On each visit I'm reminded by who I was when I first stepped off the plane and who I am on this third arrival.
Last time I was in London….. kid, discovering myself, and. I sat down on the same bench as two years prior in Regents Park. Delightful flowers of all colors danced in the breeze. There were so many similarities to the situation of life in which I was in as two years ago, yet even looking around reminded how much life moves on. More people populated the benches than my last visit, and afternoon sun brightened the foliage more than early morning's dim light. I think when you return to where you once were, seeing how much people and places change reminds you how much you've changed in that same time frame. That's a good thing. It's often hard to admit, and to accept, but really, it is.
London doesn't deserve such platitudes as being described as "a vibrant city." It's charming and antiquated and polite but sometimes rugged and arty and rebellious and a few blocks take you from painfully posh to keep your iPhone in your pocket. Every corner breathes eternal history and yet so much is changing that it defines modernity. CHECK OLD LONDON PIECE
Some of the people are mad; it's brilliant. The throng of powder-blue collared shirts that's spill out of offices after work and rabid chanting football faithful both share the same passion - and many, many pints. They'll knock you one clean if you're on the other side and speak too cheeky but when you're one of them you're family forever. God save the King and if the local club pulls out a cracking late winner there's waves of divine ecstasy that rival supreme creation itself. Though attending both a Spurs and Chelsea match, I've not gotten a single clue to what they're chanting.
All the while London has his bits that make you grimace. You might leave the tube hot and sweaty and find yourself in a smelly square and think this place is a bit rubbish innit? Why I’ve just seen thirty pigeons feeding out of someone's hand in Piccadilly Circus. There are 47 people taking pictures in front of me on Tower Bridge. Someone's dropped their Nando's in Leicester Square, now that's a shame. This lad at the club is claiming that he has a lot of substances which I’m frankly not interested in nor do I think he has them under his Brixton hoodie.
Oasis and the Beatles were produced further north but this city made PinkPanthress and Central Cee. Call it a draw. The smog which covered the manuscripts of Dickens is gone but it's still bloody raining most every week (though it's always sunny when I visit). The National Portrait Gallery holds rich paintings of some of my favorite deceased Brits like Henry James and Winston Churchill but I also saw photographs of Raheem Sterling and NAME MODERN.
Many call London’s food scene in to question and they have the right. Though I'll forever stand up for fish and chips and mushy peas, a full English breakfast (with extra beans), and coronation chickens sandwiches at high tea. I’m just as inclined to boast about Brick Lane’s lamb vindaloo, late night Döner Kebab, and so many other unique cuisines like Sri Lankan that you’re hard pressed to find elsewhere. Diversity in gastronomy in London makes its strength. The city is such a beautiful blend of cultures that that’s what should define its food scene.
When Big Ben chimes you might roll your eyes but when the bells of St. Paul's Cathedral toll it's so beautiful I could cry. There's infinite peace to find in innumerable royal gardens specked throughout Underground stops and wide streets carrying double-decker buses. The views of the Thames from any bridge you cross is magnificent. On top of Primrose Hill the whole city is before my eyes and it makes me cry.
There’s an asterisk on Madrid as it’s the city I lived in for 61 days before the Covid-19 pandemic sent me packing. Not a day goes by where I don’t think about the city — read more of my thoughts here — it shaped me so much as an individual. Living, studying, and working in a place for multiple months was very meaningful and is something I would like to do again.
I owe Paris a third rodeo, though I'd like Mexico City to extend two more invitations. On my third visit to London the city said "I'll always be here for you." When life got tough I went to London and rediscovered some of the few fundamental joys of life: food, football, friends, F. So if you’re curious enough to visit a city multiple times, the third visit is perfect. If you're lucky enough for a fourth, the city will welcome you back with open arms, a place that's not yours still called home. You've found a urban hub existing across the temporal plane for where you were, what you became, and who you can be.
A lovely morning stroll through idyllic Regents Park.
Theatre of Dreams.
Marcus Rashford, a superstar and inspiration on and off the pitch.
London's iconic red double decker buses outside Victoria Station.
In no place is London’s polite and organized society more apparent than in its Underground. Signage and announcements are comically civil. Stand right and walk left, please. Please tap your card to enter and exit at the (sometimes ungated) metro entrance. This train is quite full, so please consider taking the next train which is 2 minutes away. We sincerely apologize for any inconvenience or delay to your travel. The long escalator ride down to the cavernous and sweaty stations is worth the frequent trains rushing by on a mechanical schedule. All stations are so interconnected that one can traverse the entire city in any cardinal direction without needing to transfer above ground.
For breakfast I checked out Harrods Cafe. Escalators coated in gold led up several floors up through the luxury department store rife with designer fashion, home goods, and furniture. My first English Breakfast tea was grand, and the braffle– a love story dish of brioche meets waffle– exceeded all expectations as a sweet fusion between two remarkably compatible breakfast items. The desire to peruse expensive and ornate luxury goods did not strike me, so I instead bought some gifts at the reasonably priced food hall and markets on the first floor.
One of the most unique ways to learn about a country’s culture is through portraiture. All the humans who made a great impact on a nations’s history, politics, science, technology, math, art, music, religion and more are on display. The National Portrait Gallery in London hosts over 12,700 portraits and 220,000 works, an eye-popping yet somewhat logical number given the number of influential British figures. William Shakespeare, the Beatles and others give company to innumerable portraits of royalty— they seem to really like getting their picture done.
Like Ella Fitzgerald, I had to swing at The Savoy for afternoon tea, a splendid London experience. The circular room exudes unquestionable elegance. Its white walls are as pristine as the notes coming from the piano, with sweet renditions of classics and twists on modern tunes. Tea is served hot and makes the perfect pair for afternoon sandwiches and cakes which are delicately crafted. Although not advertised, you can order more of any sandwich or cakes that suit your fancy. A guest list of stars who stayed at the Savoy is extensive and includes Al Jolson, Cary Grant, Frank Sinatra, Marilyn Monroe, George Gershwin, Bob Dylan and Ernest Hemingway among the greats.
Both the host and server had to twice confirm my table would be for one and not two. A bit of frustration must have been on my face because a new server came to the table and relayed her own experiences solo traveling. We chatted about our adventures and it made me feel much less alone. Following the extraordinary meal, she brought over one extra cake on a plate containing a chocolate drizzled message: Welcome to London. Small acts of kindness are so easy, and her gesture truly made my day.
The one and only braffle hollandaise.
Swingin' at the Savoy
Welcomed to London with some kindness.
Bong bong
I started the next day with a heaping British breakfast of eggs, beans, toast, sausage, bacon, fried tomatoes and fried mushrooms. Fortunately, the walk to Primrose Hill was long and steep. By the time I reached the top, I had probably burned off most of the calories. The climb was well worth it. All of London’s skyline lay ahead. From Canary Wharf at the eastward extent to west London, one can see iconic landmarks from all eras including St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Shard, BT Tower and the London Eye. It was a simple reminder of the city’s storied history and growth. Under the sun I read, dug life, napped and dreamed of tales from days of ye olden London days.
London has lots of museums, some big and some small, but one niche stop called my undivided attention. The Charles Dickens Museum is located in the King’s Cross home which the Victorian author rented between 1837 and 1839, writing the prolific novels Oliver Twist and Nicholas Nickleby. Well-preserved artifacts like his writing desk, dining room and personal correspondence preserve the greatness of one of England’s most influential writers. A new exhibit on the once infamous London Fog and the inspiration it served for Dickens got me thinking about how Hard Times and imagination go hand in hand.
Strolling around the city without any Great Expectations, I ended up at St. Paul’s Cathedral just before Evensong. There are few feelings better than showing up unplanned at the right time. All are welcome to enjoy the choral evening prayer which echoes beautifully throughout the spacious baroque nave. A church dedicated to Paul the Apostle has stood on the same site since 605 AD, and the present building has existed for over half a millenia. It is special to enjoy song, regardless of one’s religious inclinations, in that magnificent space. Music exists as one of the most pure expressions for our love for life.
After getting my fill of song at St. Paul’s I walked near London Bridge for a cheeky pint by the river. The area was abuzz with men in powder blue button downs and women in suit pants. A rope penned in us drinkers by the embankment like farm animals while posh diners enjoyed cold oysters and chilled bottles of wine. The oysters must have been refreshing, but the symposium— which meant drinking together, in Ancient Greece— of loud drinkers was surely more interesting. Some Londoners told me they got out a kick out of my A Short History of London book and my American accent. Everyone knows the sinners are much more fun.
I polished off my pint and headed to Tower Bridge to watch the sunset, a spot a friend mentioned would be perfect for reflection. He was right. Evening’s last rays of light set the sky ablaze. All the challenges of recent months melted. I had managed to travel to yet another international city, see the sights, feel the energy, make memories with friends, learn the culture and connect with myself. The uncertainty I worked through, thick grey clouds of self doubt and loneliness, dissipated into the wine dark river.
But dinner approached and taking the Underground would have delayed me. The trains in London may be fast, the boats are even faster. I spotted an Uber Boat and hopped on the ten-minute ride to Canary Wharf for just a few pounds. We pulled away from the dock and the boat took us eastward on the Thames. A glass of prosecco kept me company. With the sun dipping below the horizon, a tangerine sky created a sharp contrast with the dark silhouette of Tower Bridge. It stood strong until the boat turned a bend and it slipped out of sight. The air rushed all around and reinforced me with hope.
At night I took a midnight stroll by the Thames in East London. Mist settled low and wind blew on the riverbank, small waves lapping the shore. Clouds blocked the faint moonlight and blurred city lights. But I didn’t mind. Throughout the London fog I felt only internal warmth and sunshine, resilience and resolve, excitement and confidence to work through a hazy future and succeed in a new chapter.
Behold, London lays before you.
Charles Dickens' magnificent writing desk.
A cheeky pint by the river and informative read.
Floating away from Tower Bridge and the sunset.