Literary wanderings

I am chomping on a raspberry meringue that we purchased in an Italian deli, on the same street as several other delis, a collection of small restaurants, and many boutiques with stylish clothes and shoes. We feel very international even as we continue to be stunned by the price of real estate. The 600 square foot flat (apartment) we are renting would likely sell for at least one million pounds (add half again to figure U.S. dollars). We cannot imagine how all the young faces around us manage to live in the neighborhood.

I reflect on our visit to Kew Gardens, where we walked through time with my cousin Karen and her husband. As with so many large tracts of land, the history of Kew is all wrapped up with the British royals, who owned much of the prime real estate in centuries past. The gardens began to take shape in the 1700s with successive royals adding to its size and splendor. We stroll through grove after grove of trees, each so thoughtfully planted and carefully tended. Peacocks, large wood pigeons, colorful ducks and other birds wander around with an air of ownership. We see the occasional swan in ponds laden with water lilies. The most amazing feature of the gardens are the large, very spectacular “glass houses,” ornate greenhouses filled with the more exotic plants in the collection. They are old to us, being built at least 150 years ago, but in Britain, the word old takes on a rather different meaning. Here, old goes back 1,000 years and ancient is even older! I see the trees as a cast of thousands, creating a frame for the main characters – the remarkable glass houses. Together with the water features, a small palace and other structures, they tell a wordless but eloquent story of the loving labors of many generations.

One aspect of our trip involves discovering our family history, which has gaps we hope to fill during our travels here. This is the first time I’ve met my cousin and as we walk under the great trees, we try to share a lifetime of hopes, joys and disappointments. In such a rooted place, I feel my lineage stretch away into the distance.

Later we visit a pub in Richmond-upon-Thames, the White Cross, which sits on the edge of the Thames. I am astounded to learn that the lower patio and entry way floods every day with the tides on the river. Patrons take it all in stride, arriving before or after the tide. I am both amused and fascinated that the pub posts the tide times on a sandwich board outside. Inside we meet a regular and his dog, Louis the First, who is very deft at cadging morsels from my cousin’s plate, using his brown Schnauzer eyes to best advantage.

It has been a day full of family photos, reminiscing and exploring. As we hug goodbye, my cousin and I agree that much is left to be said and done.

My better half’s perky internal clock has him up at 5 a.m. doing battle with our european kitchen to make tea and toast. He emerges victorious, his bread toasted on one side. I enter my own battle with the shower with a set of taps that confound me. No matter what combination I try, the water pours out blazing hot. The taps are placed in such a way as to ensure the erstwhile bather gets an early soaking. Eventually I emerge victoriously clean and slightly scalded. We gaze out the window at Abbey Road and see men cleaning the streets with brooms and bins on bikes. A bit later we see a motorized street cleaner driving by. Now we understand why this huge city teeming with activity and packed with people stays so clean and tidy.

Yesterday we toured Kew Gardens – an enormous landscaped tract of land in the middle of the city. Today we are off to see Parliament, that bastion of great debate. More on that and our other adventures later!

We have arrived in London, which feels like the melting pot of the world. We are thrilled with our decision to hire a car to take us from Heathrow Airport to our digs on Abbey Road – yes, the road immortalized (can a road be immortal?) on a Beatles album. The roads are very narrow, cars very fast and of course all of the action is on the other side of the street from our norm in the U.S. Our driver, Abdul, tells us he is Persian and that his family was from Afghanistan, where they had lived for generations. The family was forced to flee when he was not yet 10 years of age; he and his sister rode donkeys across the border, trying not to look at the bodies of an earlier group of refugees, killed by Russian artillery. That was 40 years ago and today he is grateful to live in peace. He tells us that the highway that circles London is about 140 miles long and that it does not encompass Greater London. We marvel at the giant presence of this city whose name we are told was coined by the ancient Romans when they moved in.

Our rental apartment is in a converted church, which is charming. I am struck by the irony of an empty church looking out at droves of devoted followers collected across the street taking photos of Abbey Road Studios. They are very brave (or something) as they plunge onto the crosswalk on a busy street full of drivers unconcerned by their celebratory stroll (did I mention people drive at a fair clip here?), recreating the famous album cover. We walk off a dose of jet lag and find the former home of Sir Thomas Beecham, a composer and impresario who had a major influence on Britain’s classical music in the early to mid 20th century. He even wrote a book – a biograpy of his favorite composer, entitled “Frederick Delius.” Everywhere we walk, we encounter British history juxtaposed by the chatter of a host of languages used by passers by. We stop and ask  a young lady directions and she has an American accent but uses British slang. Very fun for us.

Real estate here in the heart of west London is not for the faint of heart. A 2,000 square foot townhome can cost 4 million. Pounds, that is, so add half again to estimate the U.S. cost. We look at all the young faces and wonder how they manage.

Today we are surrounded by musical history. Tomorrow we are off to Twickenham.

It begins as a place to house musings on literature during a trip to England, but like the diverging roads in Robert Frost’s poem The Road Not Taken, there’s no telling where it will go from there! Frost wrote about choosing a road less traveled, which I like to think could have been a reflection on the three years he spent in England before returning to the U.S. and writing the poem in 1916. England will be decidedly more modern in 2012, but it is filled with the echoes of history and a rich literary tradition that must have captivated many a traveler’s imagination. My better half and I will launch our journey hoping to learn more about our respective family lineages while visiting historic sites and learning about just a few writers among the host who have wielded a British quill. Most of all, we hope to have a great time experiencing a different culture. We land at Heathrow Airport on Sept. 3. It’s easy enough to join us – just follow along as this newbie blogger navigates mouse, tablet and maps.