August 21, 2022: London Pilgrimages -

After a while, I started to see the London part of my trip as a series of pilgrimages. For instance:    

The choir room is downstairs in the Crypt of St. Paul’s. Memorials to a lot of famous folks are in the Crypt, and a person could spend a day finding all of them. I go looking for William Blake and Florence Nightingale, but I’m actually on a quest to find Arthur Sullivan, of Gilbert &.  There he is, with his harp.

And right beside the choir room door, there’s a memorial to a music person who was not at all famous, Robert Eaton, a singer in the choir. It’s very dim in that part of the Crypt. So much history.

I made it to the British Library, the “treasures” room, an amazing place:  Magna Carta, Gutenberg, Mozart  scores. Handwritten early drafts of Beatles lyrics.

Thrill upon thrill. Manuscripts by Wilfrid Owen, Wodehouse, Virginia Woolf. The last time I visited, there was a display where you could don earphones and listen to a scratchy recording of Woolf reading one of her books, but that has been removed “for safety.” (I blame the pandemic.*)

I did go to a different booth and listen to Vladimir Nabokov carrying  on, in his unplaceable accent, about the PLEASure and AGony of writing, the HARROWing IR-RI-TA-tion, when STRRRUGGling with one’s TOOLS and VISCERA, the BLLLUDDer, which must be DRAINED.  (Took me a minute, the bludder, but I got it.) I listened to it three times. So good.

I made it to the Globe, and yes, I know it is a replica, That’s fine. I was with my friend Mariko, and we saw most of Julius Caesar, but snuck out after Marc Antony’s big speech because we had a ten p.m. dinner reservation at Rules, London’s oldest restaurant, and a pilgrimage spot for Mariko. It was grand, and we finished with sticky toffee pudding.

And I made it to the Tate Modern, where I’ve never been before. I was awed by the entrance atrium, which felt like another cathedral, the tremendous height. Those small things in the photo are people on the entrance ramp.

And I did enjoy the art, especially a sound installation by Oswaldo Macia, featuring recordings of birds as if they were instruments in an orchestra. But the art wasn’t my main goal.

Years ago, my young colleague Tom B and I went to a meeting in Oxford, flying through London. I don’t know what I did with my brief tourist time, but I know that Tom went to the Tate Modern, a pilgrimage for him. Unfortunately, he was so jet-lagged that he lay down on a bench, his head on his backpack, and fell asleep.  Tom died a couple of years ago, long before his time. I decided to go visit the benches. There aren’t many inside the building, but there are some excellent snoozing sites in the courtyard. I designated one of them, and sat down, and said hi. (Tom B lost his cousin in the World Trade Center. Shades of the Robert Eaton plaque.  So much history.)

*On a pandemic note: I was meant to fly home tomorrow, but COVID has benched me in Bristol, and I pushed my ticket out another week. I’m feeling crummy but in no danger. I am isolating, but I have family nearby.  I’m on Day Four, and I want to salute everybody who got those vaccines and boosters made and tested and approved and distributed – you know who you are. Thank you. I would not want a more severe version of this puppy.