London, Part 3

“Sir, you can’t take pictures in here,” a rather rude proctor barked at me. I looked down at the powered-off camera in my hand at my side and began to object, but the woman had already scurried off. I imagine that the camera restrictions were in place primarily to protect the Royal Observatory’s postcard revenue. Harrumph. That really put me off, and I bypassed their gift shop without a glance after I completed my browsing.

From Greenwich, I made my way to Canary Wharf, a business district near the Thames. I was set on finding a sculpture made from dozens of functioning traffic lights that I had seen on Top Gear, a BBC motoring show. With no idea about the sculpture’s name or location, save for that it was in a traffic circle, I set off on my quest.

That part of London was definitely well-to-do, and it was definitely not overrun by tourists. In fact, I might have been the only tourist in the area.

During my search, I encountered an outdoor, uncovered, refrigerated skating rink, where I learned that Londoners seem to have no experience on ice skates. A block away from that, I started seeing a bunch of Bimmers and then, suddenly, a BMW dealership in the base of an office building. I checked out the 1-series, which we won’t be getting in America for a while (we’re not missing out on much). Upon departing the Bavarian auto dealer, I traversed down into an underground shopping mall. The mall was completely hidden from the surface. Had I not bumbled into it, I doubt I would have noticed it.

About the time that I found the shopping mall, I decided that I must have been wandering in the wrong direction. I made my way back above ground and set off to the west.

After having a Lotus, several Porsches, and a Bentley zoom past me, I finally found the sculpture. Huzzah! Of course, by that time, the sun was close to setting, but I wanted to see one more sight in the warm light of evening: Tower Bridge.

Tower Bridge seems to be thought of as London Bridge by some Americans. According to legend, an American oilman bought London Bridge and had it shipped to Arizona. Supposedly, so the legend goes, he was immensely disappointed when he saw an arch bridge (London Bridge) being reassembled instead of a draw bridge (Tower Bridge). The man who bought the bridge, Robert McCulloch, strongly denies that he thought he was getting Tower Bridge, but would you really want to admit that you had the wrong historic bridge shipped to the other side of the world? I wouldn’t.

Darkness soon fell across the Thames, and I retreated to the West End. Harrod’s was still open, and I hadn’t yet visited.

London, Part 2

“The jubilee line between Waterloo and Green Park is closed due to a fire brigade investigation. This includes Westminster station,” the proper British voice said over the station PA system. I had weaved around three fire trucks just to get into the station, and once inside I saw a dozen firefighters preparing for something in the ticket hall. Was there a fire? No, none that I could see, nor was there smoke. Probably for the best.

Due to the other two tube lines passing through Westminster, I was able to take a detour yet still arrive at Greenwich in a reasonable amount of time. When I got off of the DLR (Docklands Light Rail) train, I was faced with… a tall sailing ship.

The Cutty Sark is quite imposing with its long wooden hull, tall mast, and miles of rigging. However, the thing that really caught my attention was the draft of the boat. The keel was a good 20 ft below the water line. That hidden volume certainly helps explain how ships of old carried such massive quantities of goods. Many little kids appeared to be having a blast dragging their parents around the boat on tours.

I, on the other hand, dragged myself up a hill to the old British Royal Observatory. Once there, I did the typical tourist things: compare my watch to the international standard and stand on the prime meridian. The prime meridian must have been broken that day: as I straddled the line, I didn’t feel pulled in opposite directions, nor did I have the desire to listen to Tupac and B.I.G. at the same time. That was confusing: British engineering usually fails when it’s raining, but the sun was out that day. Hmmm.

Inside the Royal Observatory museum was a wealth of horological exhibits and artifacts. The most impressive were the clocks built by Harrison in pursuit of the 18th-century longitude prize. Those timekeepers were built so well that they continue to operate to the present day. I stared in awe at the gears, springs, wheels, and balances, all dutifully ticking out the seconds, minutes, and hours of the universe. Suddenly, my tranquil admiration was snapped by a shock.

I have learned over the years that you, dear reader, are decreasingly likely to read an entry in this blog as the entry’s length increases. Not wanting my writing to go unread, I have split my five-day journey into a number of succinct parts, the first of which is below



London, Part 1

Can the sun shine in London? On my second day in merry old England, I discovered the answer: not a cloud was in the sky when I woke from a restful slumber.

My sleep had really begun the night before during a performance of Chicago, to which I had acquired tickets at half price. The show was good, but I kept nodding off. Every few minutes, I would feel my head start to fall at which point I would jerk it back to attention. It must have been terribly distracting for my seat neighbors; goodness knows that it diminished my viewing pleasure. Regardless, the sleep from the theater combined with the sleep from my bed to finally shake off my jet lag, and the early morning blue sky foretold an excellent day of tourism.

Being an engineer, I wanted the trip to hit several sights that wouldn’t make the average theater monger’s list: the mechanical clocks at Greenwich, Babbage’s difference engine at the science museum, and a sculpture made from dozens of stoplights. But first, there were several classics to see in the bright light of morning.

The parliament building is directly across the street from the Westminster tube station. Perched atop its north wall, a giant clock proudly displays the time for all that have gathered. I was privileged to hear Big Ben, the giant bell within that clock, while I was milling about the area.

After enjoying the rays of the sun on my face while taking in the beauty of Westminster Abbey, I decided that it was time to head on to Greenwich. But lo, what was that in my path?

Yesterday, I didn’t feel well when I woke up, but I went to work anyway. After suffering through most of the day, I went home about an hour early. By 7:00, I was asleep for the night.

The morning brought no relief, so I did something that I’ve never done before: I called in sick. Yup, first time for any job, ever, though not for school. I remember skipping class due to illness one day during my freshman year, so that means I haven’t had a similar occasion in about five years. Still, the act of skipping work for the sake of my own recovery feels very odd.

I spent most of the day today feeling miserable and snoozing on the couch. Fortunately, I am feeling a bit better as I write this in the evening. I hope to be back in the office tomorrow morning, a quieter (not as much coughing) and less infectious (but of what?) man.

After a long flight, I have arrived in London. I’m glad I brought my heavy winter coat; the 40-degree temperature is surprisiingly frigid.

My flight on Northwest was quite pleasant, not the least reason being that it actually happened — the pilots have not yet struck. The plane was a relatively new A-330, which was equipped with a surprisingly enjoyable individual entertainment system. Each seat had a screen on which the passenger could watch one of several dozen movies on demand, watch the progress of the plane, or even play games against the other passengers.

It is amusing to watch people drive on the left instead of the right. This switch also applies to right-of-way on walkways — people habitually go to the left when approaching others.

It is nice not to deal with a language barrier. Sure, there are subtle differences, but the gap is nothing like the one between English and Italian. Everybody sounds so proper and British — imagine that! I swear, the airport train announcement voice sounded exactly like Pierce Brosnan. Unfortunately, the voice kept telling me that my train was running later and later; German trains, these were not.

I am somewhat underwhelmed by my first Tube experience. To be sure, it wasn’t a bad experience, it just wasn’t the zen that I was expecting. At this stage of my journey, I would still rank the Paris metro as my favorite subway system.

Jet lag sucks. Gotta stay awake…