Stolen pint glasses in London

My day began with an abysmal yet typical hostel breakfast of instant Nescafe and white toast smothered in margarine, but quickly improved. I walked to Trafalgar square to squander my salary at the gift shop of the National Gallery, before paying homage to my favorite paintings in the world-- Whistlejacket, burnished in copper and ready to fly, by George C Stubbs; the Fighting Temeraire by English genius Turner, the copper rays of the sun dying into the gray water he left so lifelike with his last brushstroke; a vase of sunflowers by--who else?--Van Gogh; and let's not forget the deeply moving spectre of 17-year old Lady Jane Grey's last few moments on earth, as she was guided by a silent, sympathetic witness to the block on which she was beheaded in the Tower of London.

A quick coffee and bottle of sparkling water infused with ginger and lime made up for breakfast, and I danced across the street to St. Martin in the Field's for their lunch concert.
The concert featured the young and talented pianist, only 18, if that, and named at age 11 England's Best Young Musician. After a concert of Bach and Vivaldi echoing among that oldest and best beloved church--whose free lunchtime concerts have become tradition since WW2--I tubed over to St Paul's.

St Paul's, considered architecht Christopher Wren's masterpiece and everlasting monument, was only his 3rd structure ever built--his first structure being a doorway. Yes, a doorway.
St Paul's is unparalleled in magnificence, the most beautiful church in England if not Europe with its golden dome and pure, clear windows letting the natural light of the country stream through. Interestingly enough, St Paul's was built over the temple the Roman legion first erected upon founding ancient London, a temple to the goddess Diana. Fast-forward to this same site, that of St Paul's, site also to the wedding of the 20th century, that of Diana to Charles, and eerie hairs raise on the back of your neck.

I climbed the 530 steps to the top of the Golden Dome for an incredible view of London new and old--thanks in part to a very old rule stipulating that no structure can be taller than the cross cresting St Pauls. I see the Thames stretched out like a silver banner, glinting exactly like Turner might paint it, Parliament hazy in the distance, a threat of rain the silver sky. The climb--and the view--are equally breathtaking.

Once St Paul closed I trotted over the bridge to the Tate Modern Museum. But before entering, 1pound for a bag of fresh honey roasted peanuts. I took a seat in the only place possible, on a long public bench in front of the Tate Modern next to a little old man. Around us swarmed a field trip's worth of young students chattering in a language I still can't place--but all their backpacks were Jansport, their shoes Converse, and their leader wore cowboy boots. Still, I had no idea where they hailed from.

After the young field trippers departed, I was on the verge of offering the elder gent next to me some of my peanuts when his family, apparently, arrived, and said in German tones what could only be interpreted via their smiling winking faces and coy tones as "Oh, you got yourself a girlfriend, did you?" he laughingly stood and joined the impeccably dressed trio, an older woman and two young men, and they sauntered off together, reunited. A dozen paces away, he looked back and smiled at me, and I smiled in return.

"The Capuchins drink poorly,
The Benedictines drink deeply,
The Dominicans drink jar to jar,
And the Franciscans drink the cellar dry!"

Or so went the ancient adage that opened my pub crawl, led by, of all things, an American. "The dipthongs are chewy, the accent is American," he said by way of apology. "All I can say to whoever is British, is that you knew it would happen to you sooner or later!" And away he led us, in a fedora, oil-skin duster, and a rainbow striped scarf the very match of my favorite pair of knee socks.

Away we went along the Thames, learning interesting facts such as the Blackfriars bridge girders are festooned with saltwater fish statuettes on one side, and freshwater fish on on the other--and this is accurate, given that the Thames is tidal, receding 12 miles a day and then flowing back 9 miles. A cork, dropped into the Thames near Blackfriars, would take 2 and a half weeks to flow to the sea at that rate. And he (David) threw a cork in for good measure to illustrate his point.

From there we trod o'er the "wilbbly-wobbly" as it's known, or the Milennium Bridge--the first bridge built over the Thames since Victorian times. It's a marvel of engineering, being a suspension bridge solely for pedestrians, and thus the suspensions run in gentle swoops, making the entire bridge resemble a brachiosaurus' backbone from a distance. On the bridge itself, the walkway is a smooth steel ribcage like a dragon's belly, and the burnished handrails are so low, I can picture myself slipping a leg right over them, pivoting on my hips to walk away from the footbridge onto the griders, and subsequently throw myself into the olivine murky waters.

Tempting....but no.

The Thames, by the way, is reputedly the cleanest urban river in all of Europe. Once polluted, it now hosts over 120 species of fish including dolphin and salmon, and over 200 species of plants. It's murky character is due to its tides, which cause the river to gain 4' in height and ove 300' meters in horizontal length in places (forgive me for my cross-metric distances!). Put a glass of Thames water on a mantlepiece for fifteen minutes or so, and the silt will settle, leaving pure, drinkable, tap equivalent water. (Try not to imagine it recycling through an average of 7 Brits before reaching this point in London, however--by far a less savory factoid.)

We find our first pub--Young's. Young's has been a brewer for hundreds of years, as only a famous brewer can. We stop in to the Young's Arms, which our guide calls the best modern pub in all of England. I try the "special special," called the St George, a version of their popular bitter. It's flat and room temperature--which is a good thing!--and I taste the wood of the casks and a faint apple tang. "It takes 10 years to aquire the taste," says David, and I can rather see why. Tasty, but without the marrow I love about a good, dark stout. We drain our pints (I nick mine, dropping it into my bag) and continue on.

We pass the Borough--the moniker of one of London's most popular food and fish markets, leftover since the Anglo Saxens staved off the Vikings, and long before the Norman conquest. Around 900 AD this whole city was called Londonburgh, or London-burough, meaning "the fortified place," referring to the walls left by the evacuated Romans.

(Rome, by the way, built Londinium on the Thames exactly in the same situation as Rome is built over its own river, and, in an ancient miracle, supplied Rome with 300 gallons per capita, whereas modern London struggles to dole out some 30 gallons per capita today.)

The second pub is the Market Porter, but sadly, they're all out of porter.

"Fancy a Guinness, Wonda?" I ask myself.
"Owright," I reply to me.

And down the hatch.

We move on, but not before an anecdote. And in fact, at the beginning of the tour, David fairly warned us, "You'll get from me some history, some biology, some biography, some architectural notes on the pubs themselves, as well as recommendations on favorite tipples--and to be frank, after a jar or two, an anecdote may also come your way." And so it does, as, outside of the Market Porter, we discover we 30 some people on the drinking tour are from New Zealand, Canada, Australia, England, America, & Norway. The ancedote, which toast our jail-bait brethren goes,

"The Scottish drink their whisky neat,
The Irish drink it hot.
The Aussies have no national drink,
So they drink the ruddy lot!"
And away we go again.

We finish out the night at the George's Inn, the only surviving coach inn in England, with it's coach lights and rooms above the pub, over 330 years old and frequented by the likes of Shakespeare in it's day. Another pint and some chewing the fat with my New Zealand friends (urban planners working in London for the time being as it turns out) and then I head home, blearily, on the tube, another nicked pint in my bag. "I'm tipsy," I think to myself, counting up 4 pints downed and no dinner. "You're tipsy," I say out loud to myself in stern parental tones, clutching onto the railing of the long escalator down to the Jubilee line.

And so to bed.