September 11 proved a cumbersome day; a bit of a nightmare as far as public relations in the States, our profs warned us to stay away from major Tube lines, the embassy and consulates region, Grosvenor Square, major tourist attractions--in short, anything imagined to be interesting.
It was well enough; I stayed in to blog and do a bit of homework. Unfortunately, Saturdays the Centre does not prepare any meals for us, and at about seven o'clock, the peanut butter sandwich at noon seemed years ago. Determined to finish with this cabin fever, I grabbed my purse and walked off to Queensway in search of some cafe in which to sit and write some musings.
While cafes and pubs are demure about two in the afternoon on most days, Saturdays are performance times, outside the regular workdays, and the evenings are packed with enthused white-collars ready to let loose for the weekend. I passed the famously delicious places like Tuk Tuk (Thai food), Bella Italia, and that five-dollar pizza joint no one can remember the name of. Everywhere I looked was an absolute zoo and I was beginning to sink into claustraphobia.
Stepping on the Tube and choosing a random stop, I got off Hammersmith and City in the middle of Baker Street...you know, the one famous for one Watson and his friend Sherlock Holmes. I stood in the gathering dark and admired the turn-of-century buildings when someone said, "Excuse me, ma'am, do you know where the London clinic is?"
I turned and tried to help read her directions, and was less than confident in having her continue walking along Baker. It took a few minutes to realize that someone had just mistaken me for a local in a place I'd never been before! Hooray! Give it another two weeks, and I'll know just what to say in where to go. I chose to eat at a Pizza Hut across the street to celebrate. The thought of American pizza was intoxicating. As promised, I sat at a table with my pizza and blackcurrents juice, writing in my little notebook and in love with the city.
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