London Yatra

I have a dulling, thudding migraine and aching legs shin down, so one might say I am in pain top to toe. And I still have to believe I did go on a London yatra, it has to be so, I’m tired to the bones as a proof of it.

Wanted to write a London and back entry but decided against it. I did not see enough of that huge city to merit any such claim. What I did there, however, was walk and walk and walk, interspersing a March London chill braving with dashes on the double-decker buses. Overall I had just about half a day to absorb as much of London as I could. And so I tried. Here’s an account of the ground I managed to cover:

Heathrow (but of course) to King’s Cross on the National Express, top deck; then I walked around King’s Cross, lugging my baggage trolley behind me (thanks heavens I am a light traveler) in search of the Thistle Islington Hotel, that was the end of day one. Oh I was ably aided by some maps I had printed of the net as well as a welcome to London booklet I picked up from the LHR.

Day two found me out again, braving the grey morn and the chilly winds, in search of a particular tucked-in building on Easton Street, off Roseberry Avenue. I had my maps and all but my usual sense of direction deserted me just when I needed it most, leaving me to stop and ask at least 3 people if I was headed in the right direction. One lady sent me off way off course. In the end I found the place, on my own. Quite an early morning walk that was, brrring and rubbing hands together in front of the Royal Courts of Justice and The Guardian office.

Business done, I hopped on a bus not bothering to note its route number and got down at the Victoria Station, nosed around a souvenir shop, decided I could come in later to pick up some stuff and walked down past the Royal Mews to the Buckingham Palace. Walk walk walk again. Reached the Palace but no members of the Royal Family were on display, so after some photographs, decided to move on. At this time my camera, that bane of technology, flashed a memory full warning. Cursed my low on memory camera and luck (?) and worked out I could still capture some good shots after deleting the old ones. Stepped in the St. James Park, walked the Diana Princess of Wales Memorial Walk, with the Millennium Wheel as my guide, following to the Horse Guards Road. Across it towards the Whitehall. Saw a Palestinian protest on the Parliament Street, opposite to the semi-cul-de-sac-ed Downing Street. Regret now not joining it, turned out it was against Sheikh Ahmed Yassin assassination, but I had been out of the loop since morn a day before. And I still had to tread my way towards the Big Ben. Turned onto the Bridge Street on the Westminster Bridge, went clickety click, hurriedly deleting old pics and capturing the grey Thames environs.

Then walk walk walk towards the Florence Nightingale Museum, only the Museum wasn’t on my mind, it was late afternoon and I had not a morsel since breakfast and I had no clue what route to take back home (read Hotel)
So I dragged my slightly hungry self all the way past the St. Thomas Hospital (it was awing yes) on Lambeth Palace Road to the Museum of garden History. Tried to make some sense of the route maps at the bus station, couldn’t figure way back and jumped on the second bus that stopped, having missed the first one during my vain attempt at understand the London ’map’.

My li’l bro, the most darlingest of creatures, had asked me to get him some good book on space (his latest fetish, after army kill-machinery, automobiles, atlases, geography etc.) Got down from the bus as soon as I saw a book shop, got 2 tomes weighing a total of 5 kgs and stood at the bus stop clueless as ever. Checked the route map. No bus going to King’s Cross. Crossed the road, checked the route map on this bus stop. Still nothing towards King’s Cross. Wait a sec, there was a bus going to Hammersmith, take out my instructions, yes, I could get a bus to King’s Cross from Hammersmith. Got a ticket. Got on board, top deck again. Watched Londoners go by. Stopped checking the map to know where was heading (I knew I would panic as the bus was definitely going way away from the direction of King’s Cross). Ah, Hammersmith. Walked around, gate ’H’ for Bus no. 10 to King’s Cross.
Now. Wait for a while. On the bus. But wait, I have no ticket on me. And also there is still so much of London I haven’t seen. It isn’t evening yet, however evening like it may seem (now I know why all passengers groaned when captain announced the London weather before landing at Heathrow). Got down right in front of Royal Albert Hall, but fatigue is catching up on me faster than the twilight descending on London streets. No more this tired self can take in this day (there was only one day to start with). Another bus ride. King’s Cross. No which way was the hotel? Groan. Start walking, taking routes I distinctly remember I did not the day before. Manage to find a familiar corner. Relief. The shop on the corner has halal fast food and kebabs. In fact the whole street has halal food shops. Get in the first place my way, ask if the food was halal (after the sign on its windows, just confirming). The owner is a Turk, chat up with him a bit, buy more than I know I could eat. Back to my room. Ah. Where’s the remote for this TV now? Channel 5, BBC, Sheikh Yassin’s assassination all over the place…so that’s what the protest was about. Regret anew. Eat. Sleep.

Day three: early to rise. Pack. Unpack. Repack. How do I manage to pull around this extra 5 kgs of paper? How would I stow this trolley in the overhead cabin locker? Check out of the hotel, ask direction for the easiest way to Heathrow. Get 2 different sets of them decide to return the way I came. Back to the King’s Cross A2 bus terminal. The sign does say towards Heathrow and there is a double decker standing. With doors closed on me. The time is 8:05 am. Think I just missed the 8 o clock one. Stand in the cold. Wait. Feel the light drizzle. Watch people hurry as their destination buses stop. Try to make myself believe I am indeed in London, all by myself, standing in the light shower, a trolley bag by my side, waiting for the bus doors to open, on my way back to the airport. In the bus, top deck again (become a habit hasn’t it). Guess that’s the most I could see of London, seated in a bus, wondering how on earth anyone with such a huge, hulk of a vehicle manage such precarious turns without ramming it into another vehicle. See a lot more of London didn’t cover the other day. Can’t be bothered to fish out camera from the bag. A 125 minutes (!) journey to the airport. End of story.

Moral: Don’t ask me what I did in London. Suffice to say, I managed NOT to see any of the things that should be seen. And of course I would want to go there again. I have the visa, you can send me the ticket. Thank you.