Sherrill 2011 Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 75 of a series about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts are a previous series.
Our doorway to Europe, and other destinations, from time to time, was London. Often, either before or after continuing on, Sherrill and I explored the big city and went to a play and a museum or two, depending on how much time we'd allowed ourselves. After our mop-up trip to southern Europe, we indulged in a couple of days in the great gray city. Wonderfully imperfect as it was, we never got enough of it.
Our doorway to Europe, and other destinations, from time to time, was London. Often, either before or after continuing on, Sherrill and I explored the big city and went to a play and a museum or two, depending on how much time we'd allowed ourselves. After our mop-up trip to southern Europe, we indulged in a couple of days in the great gray city. Wonderfully imperfect as it was, we never got enough of it.
We'd been reading in the newspapers and seeing on CNN and the BBC News while we were traveling about the Wall Street/Big Corporation protests in New York and other cities across the globe, including London—in front of St. Paul's Cathedral in the heart of the City, the financial center of London and Great Britain. According to the news, the area at Paternoster Square in front of the Bank of England and the Royal Stock Exchange was too small for the protestors to set up their camp and had been blocked by police, so the Occupy protesters had asked for permission to use the larger square in front of the cathedral. Surprisingly, the Dean of St. Paul's gave them permission—with the understanding that all protests would be strictly nonviolent. So, on our last evening in London I decided to go see for myself.
Sherrill & Bruce, London 2011 "Okay," Sherrill told me, turning down the volume of the television in our hotel room. "If you have to do this, go ahead, but be careful. Don't get mugged. Don't get killed."
"I'm always careful. I haven't got mugged or killed yet."
"Well, see that you don't. And don't lose your passport or anything else."
"It's all under my clothes."
"Don't lose those, either."
I kissed her goodbye and left, walking from our hotel down the hill to Paddington Station a block and a half away, where I boarded an Underground train (very crowded, because it was the weekend) to Charing Cross at Trafalgar Square, planning to walk from there. Busy gazing into store windows, admiring the old buildings, watching double-decker red buses and tall black cabs pass by, sometimes I forgot to walk on the British side of the sidewalk, weaving carelessly among the rushing bodies. Suddenly, two or three crashed right into me, almost shoving me into a red post box. They were young, I saw, stumbling ahead laughing along the busy sidewalk, apparently not caring who they bumped into.
Or was it on purpose, I wondered? Discreetly, I felt for the shape of my valuables under my clothes. Still there—not that I expected them to be gone, but you never knew. Pickpockets could be very clever and skilled, as I'd learned in Italy.
"I'm always careful. I haven't got mugged or killed yet."
"Well, see that you don't. And don't lose your passport or anything else."
"It's all under my clothes."
"Don't lose those, either."
I kissed her goodbye and left, walking from our hotel down the hill to Paddington Station a block and a half away, where I boarded an Underground train (very crowded, because it was the weekend) to Charing Cross at Trafalgar Square, planning to walk from there. Busy gazing into store windows, admiring the old buildings, watching double-decker red buses and tall black cabs pass by, sometimes I forgot to walk on the British side of the sidewalk, weaving carelessly among the rushing bodies. Suddenly, two or three crashed right into me, almost shoving me into a red post box. They were young, I saw, stumbling ahead laughing along the busy sidewalk, apparently not caring who they bumped into.
Or was it on purpose, I wondered? Discreetly, I felt for the shape of my valuables under my clothes. Still there—not that I expected them to be gone, but you never knew. Pickpockets could be very clever and skilled, as I'd learned in Italy.
Ganesh in Trafalgar Square, London Earlier on Sunday, when we went to the National Gallery, we saw that a circle of tents had been set up along the perimeter of Trafalgar Square in front of the gallery and a stage erected opposite the museum, but this had nothing to do with any protests. It was going to be a celebration of Indian Festival of Diwali. Several years earlier, Sherrill and I had been in northern India during the Diwali festival, which was celebrated widely in both villages and cities. Huge quantities of marigold blossoms lined the city streets so people could buy them to take home. In one village that we visited, families had decorated the paths in front of their homes with elaborate flower designs made from colored rice powder. Our guide and friend had opened his home in Agra to us so that we could experience the celebration authentically with him and his family, even indulging in homemade sweets.
I was pleased to see that London had decided to recognize its large Indian population in this way. A large flower-bedecked figure of Ganesh, the elephant god, sat serenely at the base of Admiral Nelson's column, his trunk resting with self-satisfaction on his big belly. A few hours later, when Sherrill and I passed by again, a security guard told us that sweets, food, and drink would be on offer later—plus live entertainment.
"Come back," she grinned, a gap between her two front teeth. "Check it out."
I was pleased to see that London had decided to recognize its large Indian population in this way. A large flower-bedecked figure of Ganesh, the elephant god, sat serenely at the base of Admiral Nelson's column, his trunk resting with self-satisfaction on his big belly. A few hours later, when Sherrill and I passed by again, a security guard told us that sweets, food, and drink would be on offer later—plus live entertainment.
"Come back," she grinned, a gap between her two front teeth. "Check it out."
That evening, when I reached the square, festivities were in full swing. A great crowd was gathered, eating Indian snacks and watching a Bollywood-style show on the stage—ten young women in colorful costumes dancing, swaying, gesturing, their elaborate routines simultaneously projected onto a large screen. Indian families, tourists, curious passersby, all were getting into the spirit of whatever was going on.
From Trafalgar Square, I set out to walk along The Strand to St. Paul's Cathedral. The sky was darkening as I passed the shiny silver marquee of the Savoy Hotel and Theatre, then other theatres, a Boots drug store and other stores, restaurants, and fast food cafes. Gradually, the avenue grew less crowded as I reached Fleet Street and the ornate buildings of the old newspaper offices and the massive Victorian blocks of the courts and legal buildings. Down one alley, in the midst of all this, I remembered, was the little house where Samuel Johnson worked on his famous dictionary. Most of the big newspapers had moved to other parts of London and no longer were produced here.
From Trafalgar Square, I set out to walk along The Strand to St. Paul's Cathedral. The sky was darkening as I passed the shiny silver marquee of the Savoy Hotel and Theatre, then other theatres, a Boots drug store and other stores, restaurants, and fast food cafes. Gradually, the avenue grew less crowded as I reached Fleet Street and the ornate buildings of the old newspaper offices and the massive Victorian blocks of the courts and legal buildings. Down one alley, in the midst of all this, I remembered, was the little house where Samuel Johnson worked on his famous dictionary. Most of the big newspapers had moved to other parts of London and no longer were produced here.
"Occupy Bank of England" camp, London, 2011 I also remembered hiking along here with our three year-old daughter on our first trip to London while Sherrill was across town at the Chelsea Flower Show. We passed one of Christopher Wren's beautiful little churches erected after the great fire of 1666. It had suffered during the bombings of World War II, but still stood, a blackened shell, waiting to be restored, even as late as 1968. Now, the elegance and fine architectural details of Wren's churches glowed almost like new.
Finally, I reached the old financial district. Although even in 2011 many of the great banks and financial institutions were busy building new headquarters out in the fast growing East End/Canary Wharf area of London, the general public still thought of this district as the financial center of England and the empire. Eight mounted police clopped past in the Day-Glo greenish-yellow vests that they all seemed to wear then. I was sure, odd as it seemed, that I heard a lone trumpet playing in the distance, maybe one of protesters.
Finally, I reached the old financial district. Although even in 2011 many of the great banks and financial institutions were busy building new headquarters out in the fast growing East End/Canary Wharf area of London, the general public still thought of this district as the financial center of England and the empire. Eight mounted police clopped past in the Day-Glo greenish-yellow vests that they all seemed to wear then. I was sure, odd as it seemed, that I heard a lone trumpet playing in the distance, maybe one of protesters.
"Occupy" movement posters, London, 2011 At last, I saw the bulk of Wren's masterpiece, St. Paul's Cathedral, the great dome silhouetted against the darkening sky. It had survived the Blitz and would survive these protestors. As I came closer, I discovered the hundreds of protesters gathered on the square directly in front of it. There must have been nearly 200 tents of different sizes, shapes, and colors. It almost looked festive. Dozens of police in their familiar Day-Glo vests stood around in clusters of two or three, looking more bored than concerned or amused.
Around the Queen Anne monument directly in front of the cathedral flapped handmade signs, posters, and banners protesting the corruption of big business and the financial industry. On a large black and white drawing of the earth was neatly printed in scarlet capital letters: CAPITALISM & RELIGIOUS FUNDAMENTALISM = POVERTY, CUTS, WAR, TYRANNY, FAT CATS, ENVIRONMENTAL DISASTER.
CAPITALISM IS CRISIS proclaimed the largest banner, red letters on black.
RESPECT EXISTENCE insisted another sign, OR EXPECT RESISTANCE.
Around the Queen Anne monument directly in front of the cathedral flapped handmade signs, posters, and banners protesting the corruption of big business and the financial industry. On a large black and white drawing of the earth was neatly printed in scarlet capital letters: CAPITALISM & RELIGIOUS FUNDAMENTALISM = POVERTY, CUTS, WAR, TYRANNY, FAT CATS, ENVIRONMENTAL DISASTER.
CAPITALISM IS CRISIS proclaimed the largest banner, red letters on black.
RESPECT EXISTENCE insisted another sign, OR EXPECT RESISTANCE.
"Occupy" camp in front of St. Paul's Cathedral, London, 2011 People were taking photographs and videos, using cameras and cell phones. The Occupation, because it was peaceful, was becoming a tourist attraction. Some of the protestors, themselves, were taking photographs and shooting video clips, commemorating this historic event and their role in it. Parents even had brought their young children. One nicely dressed mother with two preschoolers sitting on the bottom step of the cathedral told her boy and girl to look up at the man in front of them with the big video camera on the tripod and smile for him. The atmosphere was beginning to seem like a carnival—what the British called a fete—although the serious purpose of the gathering and demonstration remained clear, so far. No one seemed afraid or nervous that anything violent would happen. Except for an occasional cheer in the half-dark, all seemed quiet but for the melody of the one trumpet circling like a lament above the tents and banners.
I walked around the area, watching and listening, and took a few photographs, myself. An idealism that I hadn't seen for years hovered over the steps and square. I remembered Berkeley in the late nineteen-sixties and early seventies. The innocence of those young people soon collided with an establishment that refused to hear their pleas. I saw it happen on the University of California campus and on Telegraph Avenue and in People's Park. My daughter and I had even been sprayed with tear gas as we crossed the campus. Protestors were injured, one blinded by a gunshot. However, I felt optimistic that violence could be avoided here. This was, after all, civilized London, where people simply didn't behave like that.
I walked around the area, watching and listening, and took a few photographs, myself. An idealism that I hadn't seen for years hovered over the steps and square. I remembered Berkeley in the late nineteen-sixties and early seventies. The innocence of those young people soon collided with an establishment that refused to hear their pleas. I saw it happen on the University of California campus and on Telegraph Avenue and in People's Park. My daughter and I had even been sprayed with tear gas as we crossed the campus. Protestors were injured, one blinded by a gunshot. However, I felt optimistic that violence could be avoided here. This was, after all, civilized London, where people simply didn't behave like that.
In front of St. Paul's, London 2011 I chatted a bit with some of the protesters.
"How long will we stay?" replied one young man. "That's the million pound question, isn't it? It'll be hard in the winter, but hopefully we'll stay 'til we get our message across." His gravelly voice sounded both sincere and sentimental. He was very young. "All this and the other occupations in the UK were inspired by the protests in America."
"The bankers gambled with the economy," interrupted a friend with him.
"The financial system is unjust," added a young woman. "I have a student debt of 20,000 pounds. But the police here are great. Some of them are showing a real interest."
One man in a suit, maybe fortyish, said he had "quite a lot of sympathy for their message."
Eventually, I walked back out Fleet Street to the Strand, now much quieter than it had been just an hour earlier. On the way, I passed a dark van parked at the curb, from the back of which three people were handing out cups of hot soup to several dozen street people and unemployed who had gathered for what apparently was a nightly ritual. Silently, as if in a scene from a nineteen-thirties Depression movie, they shuffled up to get their steaming cups of soup.
Sweating a little by now, I continued on, past Trafalgar Square, now quiet except for a few people dismantling the remains of the Diwali festival, and walked up the Haymarket, past the Theatre Royal, where a somber poster of Ralph Fiennes as Prospero stared out at the street, and on to Piccadilly Circus, now almost as busy and loud as it had been on Saturday night, when Sherrill and I ate there before going to a play. This was a world quite different from around St. Paul's Cathedral. Here, everyone still seemed intent on having a good time.
"How long will we stay?" replied one young man. "That's the million pound question, isn't it? It'll be hard in the winter, but hopefully we'll stay 'til we get our message across." His gravelly voice sounded both sincere and sentimental. He was very young. "All this and the other occupations in the UK were inspired by the protests in America."
"The bankers gambled with the economy," interrupted a friend with him.
"The financial system is unjust," added a young woman. "I have a student debt of 20,000 pounds. But the police here are great. Some of them are showing a real interest."
One man in a suit, maybe fortyish, said he had "quite a lot of sympathy for their message."
Eventually, I walked back out Fleet Street to the Strand, now much quieter than it had been just an hour earlier. On the way, I passed a dark van parked at the curb, from the back of which three people were handing out cups of hot soup to several dozen street people and unemployed who had gathered for what apparently was a nightly ritual. Silently, as if in a scene from a nineteen-thirties Depression movie, they shuffled up to get their steaming cups of soup.
Sweating a little by now, I continued on, past Trafalgar Square, now quiet except for a few people dismantling the remains of the Diwali festival, and walked up the Haymarket, past the Theatre Royal, where a somber poster of Ralph Fiennes as Prospero stared out at the street, and on to Piccadilly Circus, now almost as busy and loud as it had been on Saturday night, when Sherrill and I ate there before going to a play. This was a world quite different from around St. Paul's Cathedral. Here, everyone still seemed intent on having a good time.
Sherrill & Bruce back home in Berkeley From there, I braved the crowded Underground station and found the train to Paddington, near our hotel. Sherrill and I had been surprised by the huge numbers of young people with Eastern European accents that we encountered on this trip. London's population definitely was evolving in new and interesting directions. On our first trips here, we'd mostly heard the musical accents of newcomers from the British West Indies.
Finally, back at Paddington, I decided after my long evening and walk to stop at a pub. The Dickens Tavern near our little hotel was like stepping back in time—not to the nineteenth century, despite the black and white Victorian prints on the walls, but to the nineteen-fifties or sixties. The big-bellied pub keeper moved with pleasantly jovial efficiency behind the long bar, taking orders and dispensing beer and other drinks. Football (soccer, of course) played on the television (now flat screen).
"You didn't get mugged!" Sherrill exclaimed from the bed, as I walked into our tiny third-floor hotel room a little later.
"Or killed."
"Okay, tell me all about it."
The next morning, Sherrill and I rode the Heathrow Express from Paddington Station to the airport. The occupying camps and protests continued in London, New York, San Francisco, Berkeley, and other cities. The protesters all seemed to really believe that they'd have such an impact that right would defeat might and the power of the banks and corporations would suffer and the world would change forever.
To be continued....
Finally, back at Paddington, I decided after my long evening and walk to stop at a pub. The Dickens Tavern near our little hotel was like stepping back in time—not to the nineteenth century, despite the black and white Victorian prints on the walls, but to the nineteen-fifties or sixties. The big-bellied pub keeper moved with pleasantly jovial efficiency behind the long bar, taking orders and dispensing beer and other drinks. Football (soccer, of course) played on the television (now flat screen).
"You didn't get mugged!" Sherrill exclaimed from the bed, as I walked into our tiny third-floor hotel room a little later.
"Or killed."
"Okay, tell me all about it."
The next morning, Sherrill and I rode the Heathrow Express from Paddington Station to the airport. The occupying camps and protests continued in London, New York, San Francisco, Berkeley, and other cities. The protesters all seemed to really believe that they'd have such an impact that right would defeat might and the power of the banks and corporations would suffer and the world would change forever.
To be continued....
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