London

June 21, 2011

Apartment 15, Crawford Place, London. It’s the same apartment I inhabited a year ago, though downstairs rather than up, an occasion for nostalgia. All made it across the water without incident, in what Rob remarked was a comfortable ride. Read from my Kindle a book about the making of the movie Jaws, and studied Italian. Some of those who were going to precede us and meet us here got tangled in the incompetence of the airline and rode with us anyway. Individuals are forming in my mind, though the names keep rolling off into the air. Too many names we never heard of back in our day. Train from Gatwick to St. Pancras, then we walked, hauling our luggage, to Bedford Place to store our bags. In the hours we had to kill while Acorn readied our digs, I led them to the British Museum, though I know plenty of them did something other (ate lunch, explored) than wander through those sanctified rooms. I visited my favorites and then sat in the café, paralyzed with exhaustion, watching the passing show. Watched a man’s coffee while he bought a book; when he returned we had a surprisingly long discussion about the virtues of frugality.