London 1

September 30, 2010

Hotel Russell, London. Uncharacteristically, I didn’t sleep on the flight, but played trivia on the viewing screen with other passengers, known by seat numbers and nicknames, and kept playing because I kept winning by thousands of points every round.

I keep coming back to this hotel because of its Victorian splendor, but in many ways it’s primitive and inconvenient, no water pressure, ludicrously complex plumbing, no WiFi in the rooms. It’s a lot to pay for ambience, a cozy bar, and the beautiful park across the street. Everything between landing at 7 AM and now was pretty grueling. The lines at British customs must be to some end, but it’s hard to see what, that cannot be better served in some other way. Trains and the underground to Kings Cross, then the walk to Russell Square. About half way here I felt the smile begin to creep over my face, joyful to walk again on the streets of London, but by the time the before-check-in exile had ended, the smile had gone away. I phoned the Barkley’s Card people to tell them I would be here, but still, on the very first use, they shut down my card. Drinks at the Cambridge, a tour through Soho, a couple of hours at the British Museum. I head to the National Theater tonight. Let’s see if that puts us back on an even keel.

London, unlike New York, is a place where I would be happy to live. Every time I sit down for a coffee or a rest I wonder, “What if this were my usual spot, and everybody knew me?”

A bright clear day is clouding over. I’m frantic about the difficulties of reaching Steve–most of them unnecessary and therefore provoking. I think that’s the root of my present bad mood. I’ll walk across Waterloo Bridge and all will be well,