Oct 1st: Arrival, Heathrow

The major of London, Ken Livingstone, was reported lamenting to the Economist that what Heathrow Airport does to its travelers during peek season is hold them hostage with interminable queues for security, immigration holdouts, and baggage retrieval. He couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

Once past the officialdom London embraces you, whatever your senses and sensibilities are. It offers a niche for almost every culture from different parts of the globe.

In deference to Martin Amis’, War on Clichés, I shall refrain commenting on London weather.

My hosts – Zahra and Jeff—are gracious and have a cozy three room flat in a four-story Victorian house with bay windows, intricate cornices and terraces, overlooking rows of red-brick Victorian terraced homes with long red or black doors on Wetherby Place. The flat is nestled in the posh neighborhood of Kensington just three minutes walk from the Gloucester Road underground station, 10 or 15 minute walk to Albert Hall, the British Museum and the Ismaili Centre.

That night Zahra, an astrologer and clairvoyant, suggested dinner at Stanhope Arms, a pub on Gloucester Rd. As well as being across the street from the underground, it is on the quintessential London double-decker tourist bus route, and tour drivers stop at the pub, suggesting to their patrons to have a pint before exploring the area.

Zahra had done a reading for the owner, an émigré from Yugoslavia, who always acknowledged her presence with effusive greetings she told me. And the east European waiters, because of that favor, served us with extra care.

The food was marginal: English pub food, but the ambiance—people in conversation clustered along the damp counter or around the tables with high stools—was not any different from that of most English pubs, except a majority of patrons were visitors or tourists, and that night a football match was on between two local London teams—Tottenham Hotspur and Aston Villa—so it had drawn the local crowd as well, most likely supporting Chelsea FC.

Jetlagged, sleep escaped me; a sleeping pill, even after a few pints of foster, was ineffective; and I endured watching the high ceiling for good part of the night.