London, the Axis Mundi

I was exhilarated and beside myself with joy even before arriving in London. The reasons have to do with highbrow motivations such as culture, education, the utmost awe that I always felt toward London, but also with more selfish, deeply personal glee: this was the first and only trip in 9 years that I did with my husband alone. Blissfully unencumbered. Makes you appreciate everything, for example, just peacefully queuing at the airport without anyone in your charge licking the floor, or needing the bathroom at the most inconvenient moment. Count your blessings, you childfree people!

I expected all kinds of things from London, for it to resemble Dubai in how modern it was, or to be immense and spread out like Singapore. I was resigned to have my cellphone snatched out of my hands by gangs of bicycle thieves, apparently ubiquitous in London. Mercifully, none of that happened. I expected to spend massive amounts of time in the city's bowels, deep down in the thralls of its infamous Tube. However, many of the main attractions in central London are surprisingly close to each other, and walking from one to the other is the easiest way to witness the beautiful architecture and take in the London atmosphere. Every neighbourhood has its own character and is completely different to any other. Colourful tiny terraced houses, the slimmest, needle-shaped high rises, monumental public buildings, sprawling parks.

We definitely did use the iconic London underground, but it was way faster, cleaner, safer, and more practical than I anticipated. It had to be done, if for nothing else, then for the pleasure of experiencing firsthand so many iconic stations from films and books: Victoria, Piccadilly Circus, Oxford Circus, and naturally, Paddington. I felt like Miss Marple and Paddington Bear at the same time. Glorious! I thought that Londoners were going to be grumpy and aloof, arrogant even, but they were not. They were utterly polite, kind, they smiled back and generally tried to match your vibe, which is something you will never ever experience in German-speaking countries. Smiling back at someone who is over the moon to be in your city doesn't cost a thing and means a lot.

I am one of those covert snobs who admire nothing more than a proper posh British accent. I know, I know…not proud of it but can't help myself. These distinct, clear sounds, smooth rhythm, affected speech patterns, the unaccountable, elusive absence or presence of "r", that's the stuff of my porn. London was a pretty dangerous place to be in, but not for the cellphone snatchers. All around you hear them speak, effortlessly sexy, seeming intellectual, Oxbridge educated, superiorly intelligent and well-spoken, and incredibly casual and cool at the same time. Simply turning around and locating the source of the voice helps in dispelling the magic, for quite frankly, no one would be able to live up to all those expectations, but I am glad I have never lived in London while single, because I feel I might have turned quite loose-virtued in that case, on account of their accents alone. Let's move on, because I am getting all flushed and flustered here.

Food was unbelievably tasty, but we frequented only ethnic restaurants, no afternoon tea overpriced nonsense or pub grub fish and chips for us this time. However, the Thai, Pan-Asian, and Chinese restaurants were delicious, affordable, and the waiters were beyond sweet, helpful, polite, and kind to us. London felt like the centre of the world, in this respect as well. I suspect I would never cook if I lived there. At the same time, nutrition is on another level in London. Next to any dish on the menu, you can read the number of calories it has, as well as allergens neatly listed and enumerated. If you must be gluten-free, at least help yourself by making sure to be that in London.

To buy books, look no further than London's gigantic bookshops, Waterstones, Foyles, Daunt Books…They are countless floors high, with all the editions, titles, rare authors, never-before-seen covers, it is all for the taking on the shelves. Charing Cross Road is an iconic street for booksellers and booklovers. There are quirky, boutique stationery shops filled with notebooks, inks, and art supplies. I felt like Alice who fell down the paper rabbit hole, and time never passed faster than inside the Foyles. I haven't even scratched the surface of this side of the city, since there was no time to dig into the exciting world of secondhand books, or to check out the market under the Waterloo Bridge. Books are expensive and not easily portable, so some restraint had to be put in place. However, in an ideal world, happiness is a London bookshop and unlimited luggage space.

There are theatres, shows, film opening nights, there are countless plays announced in lights, there are musicals, there is The Mousetrap, the longest running play in the world, written by Agatha Christie, staged just around the corner from the statue of the Queen of Crime herself. Welcome to the West End, the theatre district! You are spoiled for choice, culture equals London, and it is a treasure chest of intellectualism, abundant and luxuriant beyond your wildest imagination. Nights are particularly lively and dynamic, people live for going out, eating out, mingling and drinking together.

The museums, oh the museums…all for free to enter, by the way. I am not being cheap here, but free museums are much appreciated, because when an attraction is ticketed in London, the price will be exorbitant. Westminster Abbey, cough, cough…Museums are dreamy, enormous, cosy, and crammed, housed in fairy tale buildings that make you gasp and stare in shock that such beauty exists outside of the realm of imagination. They are overflowing with all the looted treasures, naturally. It is a truth universally acknowledged that British museums are the biggest open crime scenes. Elgin Marbles, the Rosetta Stone, the Benin Bronzes, Easter Island statues…I know, I know…again. There is something politically incorrect in admiring London museums, since they came to exist by the colonial enterprise and military conflict in which England was always at the forefront of. But as a visitor, you do feel privileged to have displayed before you, all together, all the riches and artefacts of the entire world. You could even make it your defiant mission to admire only the artworks that are a tongue-in-cheek critique of the colonial heritage. Among other delights, the V&A museum houses a bizarre musical contraption that shows a majestic Indian tiger devouring as a light midday snack, a British soldier in full uniform, while the sound that comes out represents his anguished screams. To each their own.

Another unmissable bastion of culture is Westminster Abbey, the Anglican church and the royal mausoleum. Guided gently by the velvety, trained voice of Jeremy Irons in your audio guide, you walk by all the crucial points of English history. The Coronation chair, the modest wooden chair that saw the exchange of monarchs for over 700 years. The graves and memorial stones of known and unknown soldiers, of long forgotten dignitaries, aristocrats, and forever larger than life giants of arts and sciences. Charles Darwin, Isaac Newton. The Poets’ Corner is the pilgrimage walk of fame for all literature lovers, with graves of Charles Dickens, Geoffrey Chaucer, John Milton, Alexander Pope…sounds like an English Literature 101 reading list. William Blake, George Eliot, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Oscar Wilde. Their names serve as memory palace points in my mind. The grand finale is at the statue of Shakespeare, presiding over the graves of Jane Austen and Brontë sisters below him. Always the bridesmaids, never the brides, my beloved smart girls. I cried discreetly for a bit next to some stone slabs, then I stepped with irreverence on some to whom I will never forgive. Ted Hughes, cough, cough!

Londoners are weird and quirky, streets are a Vivian Westwood fashion show in motion. People dress for shock effect, all the royal purples, tartans, punk aesthetics, eccentric ties, hats, feathers, velvets, and stripper platforms…on men, mind you. Women are even bolder and bigger birds of paradise. Radical makeup, angel wings, cosplay outfits… As if all the natural greys and steely skies of the climate found their logical counterpart in the tropical art of dress. It is all worn with natural flamboyance and nonchalance, as if wearing the most basic sweatsuit. I loved watching people passing by. Despite seeing more redheads than ever before in my life, there was no such thing as a typical English face. Everyone was racially ambiguous, colourful, mixed, never boring. The only colonial consequence that I could enjoy without a guilty conscience.

On our last day, we walked along the murky Thames River, saw the bascule Tower Bridge, admired the expanse of it, crossed the Millennium Bridge and approached St. Paul's Cathedral. The Tudor and mock Tudor beams criss-crossed the facades, to culminate in the Globe theatre, proudly perched at Southwark. The Bard was there, Ben Jonson, John Donne, Christopher Marlowe too, that's the thatched roof that burned down in 1613. My mind fireworked excitedly because of the sentimental value of these places that were carved into my heart for ages. Glimmer moments I will remember forever. This walk must be the most charming and literary walk I have ever had. It felt as if all my decades of studying English language and literature, suddenly, finally came alive. This is why I did it, despite the impracticability of that choice, it wasn't make-believe, it is real, history, customs, traditions, and lifestyle, and they are more marvellous than I could ever imagine. Anglophilia still has that power over me, to tug at my heartstrings and make me an even firmer devotee to beauty, culture, learning, and an advocate for the importance of arts and words and books.

The City, once the historical core of London, is today the beating heart of business and finance. Its glass and metal skyscrapers are made with self-deprecating British sense of humour, oddly shaped to resemble cheese graters, gherkins, and walkie-talkies. Bold modern sculptures, monumental pillars of banks, panoramic sky bars. A sudden turn and you find yourself in a stunning Victorian arcade market with striking architecture. Rushed, smartly dressed business people on a lunch break, orderly queueing in front of eateries that, even with their impressive turnover, still cannot afford to have a seating area. Money often costs too much.

There is, of course, the other side of the coin. London is exceedingly expensive. Pounds do look like beautiful, delicate, imaginary money from Narnia, but they most assuredly are not. The calculations done upon return home will always leave one in shock. A slice of red velvet cake: nine pounds! Train ride from the airport: fifty pounds! The tiniest hotel room: one hundred and fifty pounds! Count on spending 500 quid per day, if you are careful. Statistics claim that renters in London spend 70% of their income on their rent. So here, you must play in the big leagues or starve, I suppose. Too much love will kill you in the end.

The weather is as bad as you expect it to be, savage and unpredictable. Bucketfuls of rain, umbrellas joined at the hip, and ugly raincoats 24/7, but all this rain makes the green of England greener and lusher than anywhere else in the world. The baskets of flowers hanging from scenic pubs are a real vibrant thing, all dewy with the most recent gushes of rainwater, they are not plastic affront for the eyes. The skies are blue and incredibly open, once they do open, which makes you hopelessly fall in love with this city. You pass by countless homeless people, which pains you so much because living outside in London weather cannot be sustainable in the long run.

You hear Russian a lot, and in spite of loving the language, you realise the speakers are not exchange students or innocuous tourists from Saint Petersburg. Golden coloured Ferraris drive by, ladies with identical plastic surgeries and facial enhancements are rolling the soft Russian syllables animatedly over their tea spreads. There is a vein of controversial riches that pulses throughout the city, all flushed with oligarchs’ money. You cannot unsee it, try as you might.

We boarded the overpriced train that took us back to Gatwick airport, lugging the bags filled with tea, biscuit tins, and books. Through the curtain of rain, I peered across the suburbs and imagined the lives of people in the dwarf row houses. They seemed tiny, low-ceilinged, cramped, but still so inviting and comfortable. A mandatory patch of garden, lush green. They seemed so viscerally known to me that I felt an inexplicable tinge of nostalgia. In another life, in another me, I am sure I would be living there. Grumbling about the weather, the prices, the government, the monarchy. I would work in a bookshop or for a publishing house. I would own colourful Wellies, live on toast, tea and shortbread biscuits, and dream of a boyfriend who is not always at the pub, and who would be totally uninterested in football. Preferably, one with the Italian accent, because we all crave what we don't have.

I squeezed lovingly my husband's hand, and already started plotting our return next year. London is a complex place, deeply cultured, thoroughly bookish, cerebral, tasteful, kind and introverted at the same time. It is troubled by its past, problematic, but charismatic city where all the parallel mes would be at home. There are more ordered, more beautiful, cleaner and cheaper, easier to live in cities, but if I were a place, I could only be London.