The LLDD-Hyphen-L and I don't ask much from a tourist attraction - easy access, short lines, great views, and a place for picture-picture. We're that easy.
Tower Bridge readily met those requirements, and threw in some history, mechanical engineering and an aerobic workout for good measure.
Needless to state, I was all "Bad Tower Bridge! Bad! Bad!" for sneaking in education and exercise into what should have been a purely pang-friendster photo taking session.
Truth be told, our original plan was to visit The Tower of London (not to be confused with Tower Bridge, London Bridge or Victoria London), but once we saw the long lines and the price of admission, we quickly changed destinations. Anyway, as we walked towards Tower Bridge, we already got glimpses of The Tower of London's famous authentic medieval walls, medieval moats and medieval, um, tennis court. (don't ask me what it was doing there, I didn't pay the entrance fee)
As you approach Tower Bridge, you begin to appreciate it's beauty, size and height. That last one's of particular note, as the tower's elevator actually broke and fell several meters just the day before we went. Fortunately, no one was seriously hurt, and I still got to repeatedly use my "Hey! London Bridge! Falling down! Falling down! Get it? Get it?" jokes on the LLDD-Hyphen-L.
She got her revenge by simply walking up the stairs. Well played (gasp).
Once you do get to the top, you're rewarded with views of (from top) Central, South and East London. Simply breathtaking.
(or still out-of-breath; hard to tell which)
Some unsolicited tourist advice: the long climb up Tower Bridge is well worth it because of the interesting exhibits along the staircases and the wide viewdecks once you get to the top which allow you to take in the panoramic sights in an uncrowded, unrushed setting. I cannot say the same for the climbs up the Statue of Liberty and the Washington Monument. For those two, you're kept moving in a single file within a claustrophobic space, and once you get to the top it's like looking through a bunker fitted with a thick car windshield that's not even facing the right way.
After the highs, of course, come the lows. In this case, way below, in the Tower's engine rooms. You can't help but be amazed at the scale and complexity of the engineering involved for the coal to create the steam to power the cylinders to move the gears . . .
. . . to make some damn fine cups of cappucino.
Finally, it wouldn't be a London attraction if there wasn't some kind of wild weather mood swing. There was a bright blue sky as we took pictures on the south side of the bridge (top), but in the short time it took us to cross over to the north side, it was already cold, windy and rainy.
Some of that cappuccino would have been really be good right about then.
Make no mistake, Notting Hill is a perfectly lovely neighborhood. But I think the movie of the same name has brought the place more attention than it can handle. On weekends, it's absolutely swarming with people, making it difficult to appreciate its charms as you trade elbows with seekers of the House with a Blue Door. Notting Hill's annual carnival has also become so huge that police are enforcing curfews for the first time ever, and residents actually head board their houses and flee from the oncoming masses. A shame, really, because I think if you hang around long enough, Notting Hill will win you over. Just like Hugh.
Indeed, a trip down the famous Portobello Road follows the usual story arc of Mr. Grant's movies.
Act One: Hugh first appears onscreen, seems like a cad.
As you first exit Notting Hill Gate station, you are taken aback by the number of people and how frenzied the area is. It doesn't help settle things that the first few shops seem to be pricey (yet crowded) fashionista places. Can a leading lady fall for this sort of thing?
(The LLDD-Hyphen-L yells in the background "yes, yes she can; you had me at overpriced fashion." Wrong chick flick reference but, ok, we'll see)
Act Two: It hasn't been easy, but Hugh's redeeming qualities are coming to fore, one eye-flutter at a time.
Further down Portobello Road, Notting Hill's treasures unfold. Mind you, it's still a bumpy ride. The movie itself pokes fun at the "antiques" of dodgy variety, and I suspect some of the "collector's items" there are only collected by pretentious types who want to be able to say they bought stuff at Notting Hill (even though the things are available elsewhere at a cheaper price). Nonetheless, the sheer variety of things on display is a joy to behold, made even better by the friendliness of the sellers and shop-keepers. No Ya Show arm-grabbing melodrama here; just straight up romantic comedy.
Act Three: Hugh makes you go "awwww"
Or in this case, "mmmmmm." As you approach the end of Portobello Road, the food stalls and market emerge. If you didn't feel good about visiting Notting Hill before, you do now. Even though we knew it wasn't the correct sequence, the LLDD-Hyphen-L and I went with the fudge brownie, fruit crepe and spicy seafood trilogy. Strangers would come up to us as we ate on the sidewalk and ask where we got our food. Because our mouths were always full, we would just nod in the general direction. Or flutter our eyes. We were just some dorks, standing in front of some shrimp, asking it to love us.
Not a bad ending at all.
(well, actually, the end of Portobello Road is a bunch of "Identikit" franchises; just write that off as cinematic symbolism for how Hugh's movies always end the same way)
At the south bank of the River Thames is, um, South Bank, a visitor-friendly area anchored by the Eye and dotted with touristy attractions such as movie/music museums, river views and street performers. Now, I'm no expert, but I'd give the advantage to South Bank over LasRamblas because the South Bank performers have elaborate routines that require them to actually, you know, move. I'd also give the whole of South Bank the edge over the Times Square Naked Cowboy because the former have, you know, talent.
(Go, Lolo, go!)
Give in to the Mall, London. You know you want to.
Snobs may look down on Manila's strong mall and franchise scene, but even London is crawling with giant food and clothes chains -- "identikits", I think they're called here. In fact, total newcomers to London (like moi) would do well not to immediately brag about "this nice authentic little place they discovered", as it could very possibly be as ubiquitous as say, Tapa King. (on that note, I'd like to say: You broke my heart Zizzi, Wagamama, Nando's and All Bar One, you broke my heart.) The main difference with Manila is that the "identikits" are mostly stretched out along a town high street rather than centralized in a climate-controlled complex. But now, with the rise of Westfield (above), a new mall in west London about 2/3 the size of MOA and styled like Greenbelt, all bets are off. Resistance is futile, London.
They laughed when I majored in "New Wave". Oh, they laughed.
There's a hip and edgy music scene in London, of course; it's just hiding from me. Until I find it, I'm well served by my encyclopedic knowledge of all music 80's. I totally get that the blind performer in the Tube station is whistling "Captain of Her Heart", that the Virgin Trains commercials are using "Look of Love", and that -- and this is where it takes an expert - the BBC cop show is playing "Chant No. 1" in the background. Even the few radio stations I've heard seem to share the same playlist as "Friday Magic Madness" back home.
So, yes, I'm happy.
Probably where Veronica Pedroza trained
As I'm temporarily manning another officer's desk, the phone rings. The phone's digital display indicates its an external call. I answer.
"Hello."
"Yes, hello, this is the Pronunciation Desk at the BBC. I was wondering if you could help me with the proper way of saying a Philippine word for a piece we're doing?"
"K."
"How do you pronounce T-S-A-A-N-G G-U-B-A-T?"
"Nestea."
I kid. Of course I gave the correct anwer. I even walked the BBC person through pronouncing the "TS" and "NG" sounds. There's really no point to this story, other than I'm surprised there's such a thing as a Pronunciation Desk, and that I'm kicking myself for not asking them "so, what do you really think of Madonna?"
Meet the Britnoys
We got tickets to a musical revue staged by some West End Fil-British performers. The place was a bit far (I'd say the equivalent of Susanna Heights), but the show was totally worth it, not the least because of the "Britnoys" -- singers who were part Filipino or married to Filipinas. I only regret that I wasn't able to capture on video their headbanging, nakakahaba ng buhok rendition of "Laki sa Layaw".
Meanwhile, for all those non-jeproks in the financial district, black and gray remain the new black.
I attend an economic conference in the heart of London's business center, and get immediately washed over by a sea of dark suits. The conference itself was very good, highlighted by one well renowned speaker rather unexpectedly making -- before a roomful of senior bankers, economists and academics -- a pitch about the real money-making power of online games like Warcraft. Needless to state, you could hear crickets as the speaker tried to explain what MMORPG was. I looked around the whole auditorium and saw maybe just two faces that shared my "Hah! Y'all don't know what the hell the speaker's talking about, do you!" smug expression.
So that's why the LLDD-Hyphen-L dragged me to see "Atonement"
We were very fortunate to receive as a gift two tickets to one of the last West End performances of "Three Days of Rain." I didn't know anything about the play other than Julia Roberts appeared in it on Broadway, so at the story's early stages, I cringed at what I thought would be just another three hours of self-absorbed New Yorkers feeling sorry for themselves and talking about lofts. As the play further unfolded, however, I found the dialogue sharper, funnier and much more provocative.
I leave, in turn, the scholarly review of the acting to the LLDD-Hyphen-L:
"Ohmigodohmigodohmigod! James McAvoy in a wet sando! OMFG!!!!!"
Well said. We give "Three Days of Rain" Four Wet Sandos out of Five.
"Death-by-Carnival-Ride" sounds cooler than "Death-by-Wrong-Side-of-the-Road-Crossing", but only just
On the way home one night, the LLDD-Hyphen-L and I were surprised to see that a small carnival had sprouted on the little "Cheese Whiz" neighborhood park. It was a nice, family set-up, just like what you'd see in the movies -- by Stephen King. For at the far end, right next to (cue organ music) the church, menacingly stood: The Booster.
As I pay at the booth, I notice the operator constantly looking up at the ride, fidgeting with some buttons, and repeatedly muttering "Aw, f**k". As I step on the platform, the couple that just finished the ride says "Good luck with that." As I get strapped in the chair, the strange dude next to me yelps "What are we doing?!?" I pay them all no heed. The power of dork compels me to get on the beast.
At the end of everything, I can say with complete confidence: frak Six Flags roller-coasters!; frak Enchanted Kingdom Space Shuttle!; this was the fraking scariest ride I have ever been on. And not even in an awesome way; more of in an I-honestly-feel-I'm-going-to-die-when-will-this-ride-end-my-arms-and-legs-are-giving-in kind of way. (as you can hear, strange dude and I are not so much screaming as nababaliw laughing)
Strange dude and I literally stagger off the ride. My arms and legs are quivering, I'm hoarse, and there's snot on my face. The LLDD-Hyphen-L is concerned I may have been cold up there whooshing through the wind. (sweetie, when you're certain of dropping or being flung to your death every two seconds for more than five seemingly-endless minutes, you couldn't care less about not having a panyo on your back).
I leave the park not proud of having been on the Booster, just thankful for having survived it. The LLDD-Hyphen-L and I retreat to the flat, draw the curtains, and heave a sigh of relief when we find the carnival gone by the time we wake up the following day.
If this were a Stephen King movie, The Booster would be made into an "identikit" and placed in the Westfield food court to torment me forever.
