DAY TWO: Feeling almost human;

Following an excellent haloumi burger (!) at the low-key Earl of Essex (yet another s/o to Ray), one drink next on the patio at the Castle Pub within earshot of a Californian whose new roof only cost $5,500, so what part of California does he live in, Fresno? 10 milligrams of melatonin and lots of hours of sleep interrupted multiple times by the need to reset the A/C like Desmond in the Hatch (got that, all of you remaining Lost fans?), we emerged this morning for Day Two in London feeling "almost human," according to S. Bullock, who then almost immediately tested the limits of her mortality and my reflexes by almost getting mowed down by a truck at the first intersection between our hotel and the Angel tube station.  I caught her in time, fortunately.  The driver honked and roared on. 

And speaking of the tube, it is convenient, usually on time, located at secret Russian nuclear laboratory below ground depth and during afternoon rush hour capable of stripping whatever humanity you may have recovered via haloumi burger, melatonin, etc.  As I type this, Sandra Bullock is in the shower, prepping for our long-anticipated dinner at Ottolonghi and trying to wipe away the PTSD she picked up during our packed, sweltering tube ride from Notting Hill.  "All of those people," she shuddered as we emerged from hundreds of feet underground. "There was no air.  It took all of my willpower to overcome my claustrophobia."

Note: disposable wooden steps

And speaking of claustrophobia, what of those two poor boys held prisoner in the Tower of London, whose sorry hundreds of years-old fate barely earned them a break in stride from these traveling Americans today? Located in a tiny alcove to the right of the  stairs leading to the White Tower (conveniently made of wood to be easily burned away in case of marauding enemies, leaving William the Conqueror, whose powerful arrogance quickly alienated the conquered Britons in 1068, safe inside), the boys' sad tale went overlooked by us.  "What did they say?" Sandra Bullock asked as we moved along with a huge crowd of tourists. "These princes. They got locked in the tower," I summarized coldly. Tourists. They are us.  We are them.

You have to see the Tower of London when you come to London, so that's what we did today. We bought our tickets online and joined everyone else from the U.S. and, it seemed, Italy and the former Soviet Union. We donned our headphones and pressed play and enjoyed two-plus hours of self-guided audio tour, learning of past kings' eccentricities and moral failings, sending at least one American tourist (me) into thinking about our present U.S. President, and how maybe his biggest failing may be that he ran for  office not understanding the difference between "president" and "king."  

The stuff these guys did!  Lopping off their own wives' heads!  Locking bishops in towers, forcing them to escape by smuggled length of rope, their bishop staffs held precariously by their sides as they rappel down the tower.  And then handing off the kingship to one of their kids -- always a son, even if that means kicking your wife, the "love of your life" to the curb (kerb) after 24 years because she can only provide female heirs.  

So hey, lets be thankful Henry VIII didn't have twitter.  Or that our own DJT doesn't have access to scabbards.  

/rant

A shard of modernity

We followed our audio tours with a vaguely disappointing and Disneyland-like viewing of the crown jewels, standing in line for 30 minutes to ride a slow conveyer belt past crowns, scepters and orbs.  "I thought we were going to see Princess Di's earrings," said a crestfallen S. Bullock afterward.

This is not to minimize the Tower of London Experience (with Mitch Mitchell on drums).  I'd rank it atop or near the top of the world's tourist-centric locales, just for the history alone.  Also, the weird juxtaposition of the sleek 52-story "shard" building peeking out from behind those thousand-year-old walls is pretty cool.

But after this, and after 45 minutes of aimless walking on the banks of the Thames, S.B. and I decided we'd had enough of downtown cores. After all, we do live near one.  So we hopped the tube and had a nice alfresco post-lunch next to Kensington Gardens, congratulating ourselves for neither smoking from a hookah, staring at our phones and not talking nor wearing outrageous Gucci pants and looking, in general, like an outtake from  Sasha Baron Cohen's one-man show, in great contrast to our fellow patrons.  After this, we walked casually through the Gardens, wondering why we never do this at Golden Gate Park (suggestions: weather, lack of a young child and/or ambulatory dog) and then sauntered, Hugh Grant-style, over to Notting Hill for an Ottolonghi restaurant preview -- one peanut butter s'mores cookie split between the two of us -- and then onto the sweating, oppressive, life-disaffirming tube for a nightmarish 30 minutes, until we returned here for showers and (hopefully, if they bring up the one we requested) to iron our clothes.  Today was a rough one for the perpetually pressed Sandra Bullock.  Our room has an ironing board but no iron.  "These shorts," she said sadly this morning, "are so wrinkled.  I guess I'm just going to walk around wrinkled."

Lets end this with today's numbers:

at least 5 -- Cars that almost hit Sandra Bullock as she crossed streets.

1 -- truck driver who gave us the thumbs-up because we stopped sharply at a corner instead of having him almost hit us in the street

2 -- sad little princes stuck in the tower

95 -- revised number, in percent, of men walking around downtown in suits but no tie

3 -- yarmukle-wearing guys; bold move, my Jewish brethren.  I hear this isn't such a friendly place for the kippot.

10.5 -- hours of sleep, interrupted every 44 minutes to get up and reset the air conditioning, lest the magnetic field reverse and the island explode

1 -- Russian teenager who used force to stop her mom from letting us walk past them in line for the crown jewels while they waited for her dad to join them.

18,086 -- steps.  And that's not counting dinner.

4 -- Hugh Grant references (all by me)

1117 -- wrinkles in the shirt I'll be wearing tonight unless that iron shows up soon

1.5 -- more days in London, at least part of which will be spent at the Ritz-Carlton for high tea.

Gotta go take a shower now.  Ottolonghi.  And reset the A/C.  Don't even have time to proofread.  We're doing the good work here, you know.