London Highlights

Adam occasionally has to go to London for work, and he often asks whether I'd like to tag along—but the trips always seem to be for two days, in winter, so I pass. This time, however, he was going for three days, in May, and we could stay through the weekend. I had only been to the city twice before, and to be honest, I never thought it was all that interesting. Not that that was a problem: Low expectations can be a traveler’s best friend.

The first day, Adam and I walked together, exploring the neighborhoods of Marylebone and Mayfair. The Royal Academy of Arts had an excellent exhibit of George Bellows paintings, and we happened to arrive while (whilst!) a Klimtish mural by El Anatsui made of soda-can tags and other detritus was being hung in the courtyard. (By the way, all of these photos enlarge if you click on them.)

The next few days I was on my own. The Bellows show was one of the few items I had on my intinerary; otherwise, I ended up wherever someone pointed me. Adam’s colleague Tom and Tom's wife, Susan—we had dinner at Fifteen London—recommended the Saatchi Gallery, in particular the installation of sump oil poured into the basement. As awful as it  smells, it does make for fascinating abstract photographs.

Most of all, I liked the art by Valery Koshlyakov, landscapes painted on canvas and/or flattened cardboard boxes.

Tom and Susan also suggested the Whitechapel Gallery. There was an exhibit of exquisite botanical photographs by Karl Blossfeldt. I had the vague sensation I had seen them before, and sure enough, the house we rent in Connecticut has them on the walls of the dining room and master bedroom. (I didn’t take any photos, but I did like it enough to buy the book.) The last art-related item: Atlas Gallery, where I saw a wonderful exhibit of photographs by André Kertész.

Atlas Gallery was also notable for being in an adorable microneighborhood with a lot of independent shops. So much of the city center is overrun with national and international chains, both stores and restaurants. Chiltern Street, where Atlas Gallery is, was a respite. How can you not love a street with a clarinet maker on it?

Mayfair, Knightsbridge, Kensington, Soho, Holland Park, Notting Hill.... All were kind of blandly generic, in terms of the businesses at street level. It’s happening in New York City, too, although we’re not as far along yet, at least downtown. The Brick Lane area near the Whitechapel was still mostly uncolonized (although certainly gentrified), with the exception of the Spitalfields Market, where the first store I saw was a MAC Cosmetics shop. But my spirits lifted as I got away from it, finally coming across street art.

And another shop devoted to a musical instrument!

And a shop that only sold spray paint and graffiti markers! They gave me the hairy eyeball when I walked in; guess I didn’t look like the usual customer.

I fell hard for Labour and Wait, which sells exquisite old-fashioned stuff for the home. I don’t want to say what I bought because I might gift some of it, but let’s just say that I could’ve spent a hundred pounds on linen tea towels. And look how they wrap everything up. It’s wildly precious and I loved it.

By that point, I was more starving than usual. A sign in a window caught my eye:

The doors in question were half open. It looked like a restaurant, or maybe just a kitchen, but there were no customers.

So I walked around some more. When I next cased the joint, which I later learned is called Story, I saw two customers inside, and I ventured in. It was fantastic. You sit at communal tables, on what I think were cardboard boxes, everything white. Utenstils—including pizza cutters—were gathered in bins on the table. The place was totally art-directed but not fussy.

The pizza was delicious, and I don’t usually respond well to a crackery crust.

I thought about making Adam go there for dinner, but after walking all the way back to the hotel (on Dorset Square, near Marylebone Station), I couldn’t bear the thought. Anyway, we had reservations at various places, and all were good. Two standouts were Nopi, Yotam Ottolenghi’s newish place, and Brawn (recommended by my friend Sean), where I was tickled to see bars on the window because I had really had enough by then with all the poshness.

This is also the trip where I discovered two things: That cookies can have pretzels in them (as in the everything cookie at Brill, at Exmouth Market) and “samphire” (sounds like sapphire) is British for sea beans. The latter was at Hardy’s Brasserie—off Chiltern Street, wouldn’t you know.

I rode the Tube only once, to get to Whitechapel Gallery, but otherwise I walked—I don’t think I have ever walked so much in my life—because what I really love about visting cities at this point is noticing the little things that make one place distinct from another. In Britian, of course, the language is a treat. This trip, I fixated on “official language,” rather than the usual Britishisms (lift, boot, brolly, pram) that amuse us Americans so.

(That last one calls the plywood around a construction site “hoardings.”) I also started paying attention to every mews and alley I passed. If nothing else, you knew you wouldn’t find a Pret a Manger there.

The city has a million private squares (including the one our hotel was on), which strikes me as so selfish—like art collectors who squirrel away masterpieces. Here's a thought: One day every year, all of the private squares should open their gates to anyone and everyone.

(Note the rhododendron bush!) As I walked, I took photos. For me, photography is less about capturing the moment for any kind of posterity—although blogging is useful for remembering where the hell I’ve been—and more about forcing me to stop and admire something, taking the time to frame it, shoot it, and maybe retouch it a bit later. Photography slows you down in the best way possible.