Between flat hunting, sight-seeing and a general lack of internet access, we were sadly remiss in diligently documenting our adventure during the three week period we were in temporary housing in Canary Wharf. See below for a high-level summary of the goings-on as the memories of those first moments have since become soggy, drenched by the cresting and crashing of super chilled waves of Guinness, as reliable and repetitive as the salty waves crashing on the shores of Dover itself, foam covering and clouding those not so long ago images, reducing them to mere plot summaries from the vivid moving pictures they once were!
As mentioned above, our temporary housing was located in Canary Wharf, the relatively new financial district situated on a recently revitalized, once old and bedraggled docklands on a portion of the Thames which dips to the South momentarily, creating a horseshoe of land in East London across the river from Greenwich. You would think zoning regulations in Canary Wharf prevent the use of any material other than glass. Extremely modern, yet soulless.
This is also the area in which I work.
Our first two weeks were split between being flat hunting and happily taking up the role of live-in tourists.
The live-in tourist part was incredible. We hit parliament and ended up sitting in on a House of Commons debate with the Secretatry of Transportation fielding questions from various MP’s espousing the views of their constituents in regards to the quality of public transport in their respective counties. It was hilarious, just like you see on C-SPAN 3. MPs would make a comment and those who agreed would cheer and the rest would jeer!
Upon leaving, it was difficult to reconcile in our heads that we had just witnessed a debate within the same chamber walls that would have heard Churchill adroitly warning his fellow MPs of the threat of Hitler some 75 years ago.
Crossed Parliament square, home to tent-dwelling, poster wielding protestors, and popped into Westminster Abbey where we paid our respects to ol’ Charlie Dickens. As we exited, I realized Kristin had enjoyed her own somewhat religious experience inside the walls of Britain’s most famous church as she queried out loud, “So this is where Kate began her walk down the aisle?”
Hopped off the tube at Charing Cross and stared up in salutation to Lord Nelson, perched on an obelisk 150 metres up in the middle of Trafalgar Square. Admiral Nelson enjoys a first class seat in the hearts of Britains, as his naval victory at the Battle of Trafalgar effectively terminated any threat of invasion from Napoleon’s army.
Trafalgar Square is the preferred venue for both the conclusion of protest marches and national holidays. Since we have been here, we have witnessed the Chinese New Year celebration, Russia’s first day of Spring celebration and the conclusion of a march for the Congo protest, all in Trafalgar. I wonder if that is where I will be waving the stars and stripes this July 4th?!
Entered the National Gallery under Nelson’s watchful eye for a quick reminder that Italians did the Renaissance better than anybody else. Leonardo, Botticelli and Michelangelo, among others. Not too shabby.
Crossed the road for a pint at one of our go-to pubs in London, the Chandos Opera House. Guinness is delicious.
A few pints later, we strolled down Whitehall Lane from Trafalgar Square, down past 10 Downing Street and the Horse Guard to Big Ben; dipped underground to the Westminster tube station and headed North to the British National Museum and the British Library.
The British National houses a massive amount of art brought back from the many fingertips of Britain’s once vast empire. The only real spectacle here, at least for us, is the Rosetta Stone.
The British Library Museum is my favorite museum in the world. Housing original manuscripts of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Handel, the Beatles and the Magna Carta, it is a literary fan’s Cooperstown. Staring at a piece of parchment containing Chaucer’s Middle English handwriting, reminds you that these immortal works were created by mere mortals, which is almost too hard to believe.
Spliced in between the sightseeing fun was the flat hunting fun. I have spent quite a few hours trying to find the perfect metaphor to describe what flat hunting in London is like, but I just could not find a perfect match. It’s sort of like the old game show Supermarket Sweep, where you grab a shopping cart and race frantically around the store shoving whatever you can get your hands on into your cart before somebody else does, then hoping you don’t have too much buyer’s remorse at the checkout.
But, instead of middle-aged families pushing shopping carts, imagine an armada of Mini Coopers driven by early 20 something estate agents whipping in and out and around the narrow streets of London, giant chains of keys draped at their sides.
Our “neighborhood specialist” actually drove a bright yellow Audi that probably could have fit under our Christmas tree, which is ironic because she was like 6 feet tall. We saw ten places the first day, fell in love with a two story flat in Islington in a converted Victorian school building with a spiral staircase, made an offer on it, didn’t get it, switched our hunt to Clapham on day two, fell in love with a new flat on Theatre Street with a view of the skyline, made an offer, waited five days to hear back, didn’t get it, opened a bottle of wine.
So, with our allotment of KPMG funded days with a neighborhood specialist exhausted and no flat in sight, Kristin and I took to the internet in search of a home in a city we barely knew that was already housing 11 million or so other people. No problem.
Fortune once again favored the brave, however, and we ended up in the heart of West London in Earl’s Court, sandwiched right between South Ken and Chelsea in a high-ceilinged flat with grand windows looking out across Old Brompton Cemetery, one of the most storied parks in London. Cheers to American self-reliance!
