Wherein We Face Expanding Objectives and Dwindling Strength

The magnificent, and newly cleaned, facade of St. Paul's
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We awoke to a cloudy but variable sky (fully sunlit by 5 a.m.) and a boundless menu of sightseeing and social objectives on our second full day in London. With our hosts' encouragement and a lengthy roster of museum memberships to draw upon, we could already feel the guilt touching us from the future at our impending failure to see everything we wanted to see, particularly considering our casually-paced start to the day and the growing tiredness we shared at the start of a third week of travel-intensive vacation.

A riverwalk reveals a deluge of historical monuments.
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Nevertheless we found our way to the nearby commuter rail station, endured a half-hour delay entirely typical of London's system, and found our way to Blackfriars and down to the Thames pathway, up to the Millennium Bridge, across the river and straight into the indescribably enormous Tate Modern Museum.

The Tate Modern is a contemporary art and culture museum on the fairly recently reinvigorated south bank of the Thames, where cultural institutions and commercial development have provided countless new attractions for visitors in recent years. Built in a converted power plant and retaining much of the original layout and even some equipment, the museum starts from an "industrial chic" concept and then redefines the genre by employing a structure which dwarfs the human scale. The galleries themselves are (relatively) cozier but sprawl on, somewhat non-linearly, over enviable amounts of real estate, on several floors. Strolling from gallery to gallery, seeing little change in perspective against distant walls and windows, a curious sensation argues to the mind that one is in fact standing still.

Cleopatra called; she'd like her needle back.
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The Tate Modern's collection (recently reviewed and completely re-hung) is rich and varied, including film, installations and interpretive exhibits in addition to sculpture, painting, design and photography. We considered it a must for any London-bound student or scholar of the visual arts. Highlights included some Lichtenstein, some Richter, a great film about ants systematically hauling off shiny plastic confetti from Rio Carnival (what did they think it was??), avant-garde 30s visual art film snuck into existence as a Royal Mail newsreel ad, an exhibit of profoundly homoerotic Soviet worker propaganda magazines, contributions from both the Delaunays, Warhol and his folowers, derivatives and anti-reactionaries, and loads more stuff that Guy knows better than I do exactly what it was. The museum clearly deserved repeated scrutiny and follow-up study which would be impossible on such a short visit. Especially considering the crowds we would expect to face if we returned on the upcoming weekend - even at midday on a Friday, the corridors, elevators, gift shops and galleries were well filled with sketching students, faraway-looking tourists, whining children and organized groups.

The crowd dwarfed Nelson's Column.
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A stop in the dining room provided gourmet lunch solutions, more than just modestly over budget, but calming after a somewhat overwhelming tour of the contemporary visual arts. The original hope for lunch with an old friend of hours from D.C. now repatriated to London, was undone by his dental appointmant which progressed into more invasive care than previously anticiapted. We revised our plan to a possible late-afternoon drop-in visit.

Pondering the London skyline from the windswept river promenade in front of the Tate, the dome of St. Paul's beckoned from the opposite end of the pedestrian bridge and seemed to draw us in for closer examination. Recent exterior cleaning has exposed detail, inscriptions and the underlying grace of this architectural masterpiece. We inspected its familiar south facade and dome, then assessed the less recognizable main entrance to the west. The thought of going inside seemed logical, though London sticker shock and a pricey lunch had us both feeling stingy.

The various different kinds of old buildings.
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"Do you think they charge to go in?"

"It's a CHURCH!"

"So, yes, then?"

(Yes, they do, and somewhere in the $16-$17 U.S. range.)

Happy hour...s. Good times!
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We checked out the lobby and what could be seen of the towering interior from there, before moving on. Without realy intending to do so, we walked the length of Fleet Street and much of the Strand, passing BBC News and more Christopher Wren buildings and various roundabouts along the way. By this point the cumulative effect of the walking and the continual bombardment by history, architecture, crowds and traffic, chased us into a random Starbucks for caffeine, seating and momentary relief.

St. Paul's peeks out from behind the Millennium Bridge.
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Refreshed, and nearing late afternoon, we decided to walk just a bit further to see Nelson's Column, where we discovered a huge and youthful crowd awaiting opening ceremonies for the preliminaries of the Tour de France, hosted this year in London. A quick call to our old friend brought him down from a nearby office for our first reunion  in several years. Over a late (and dentistry-friendly) lunch of sushi and soft drinks we caught up on our lives, dodged windswept ginger slices in a blustery wind and made firm plans for a homecooked dinner for four the following night.

By now, happy hour has begun, and we made our way on foot again to nearby Soho where we met our friend and host John for drinks at the Loft, one of a handful of gay bars with outdoor deck space allowing smoking in conformance with the indoor smoking ban which had just taken effect, to the annoyance of confirmed smokers huddled on terraces. For a Friday night, the crowds were thin but the atmosphere was perfect for conversation, about London, our lives, our jobs, past travels, and background on our planned rendezvous shortly in Greenwich with our hosts' friend.

After stopping in a second watering hole we took an extremely swift walk to the train and headed east, giggling over horoscopes and celebrity gossip in one of the several free tabloid newspapers that are practically jammed into your arms during an evening stroll in the city center. A short ride and another walk brought us to a pub just barely in the Western Hemisphere (with outdoor garden) for pints and conversation into the evening with our hosts and their lovely friend. Eventually, and in fact respectably late, a small splurge on cab fare brought us all back to the house for pita pizzas, late night chatting and a cozy end to a tiring day.

The trip has moved into its second half, with only 11 full days left and a growing sense that the real European adventure we long for will come sometime in the future, during some extended period of work or study. The American sense of personal time - a 2-weeks-a-year culture even for many professonals - made us feel kind of extravagant to plan a month-long trip. But compared to the size of the world and the depth of experiences available in just a few of its cities we have visited, four weeks is the blink of an eye. In a strange way, the longest trip we've ever taken is teaching us how fast and fleeting time really is.