I wasn’t the first to see England since John Cherry left it in 1635 as an indentured servant destined for Norfolk, Virginia. Dad crossed the Atlantic during WWII with the 1st Infantry Division and saw it from the Queen Mary. I saw England in the 747’s descent to Germany in the wee hours of the morning that clearly revealed the dark island, that pearl set in a silvery sea.
The trip to England from Belgium was fatiguing and there was a cold wind whipping those on the decks. Some kids dared the sea with stunts like leaning over the railing or shoving one another - “Chicken of the Sea.” They were cussing in German; the words are about the same in English. Gradually the fog lifted revealing England's coast glaring white in the partial cloud cover. The White Cliffs of Dover were magnificent standing high above the sea with flocks of gulls gliding in the wind. Our ship neared the west docks and the passengers began preparing for disembarkation and declaration. A hydraulic pile driver caught my attention while I had my $45 BritRail pass stamped and boarded the London bound train.
My first encounter with one of the largest cities in the world was not a pleasant one, especially during rush hour at Victoria Station. I escaped the mob and managed to reserve a bed for the night from a tourist office hosted by a multilingual red haired girl with an extremely short miniskirt from the St. Christopher's Student Services on 27-30 Clerkenwell Close well north of the Thames. She directed me to St. James Center two miles west of Whitechapel where Jack the Ripper once prowled and where the plague ravaged in 1655. I read somewhere that Lenin stayed in Clerkenwell for a time; it was a traditional den of iniquity for hardened criminals, prostitutes, and radicals. Iron poles still braced many buildings that were damaged by the Blitz.
My first impressions of a subway, affectionately known as the “Tube”, included flashing arrays of posters, huge colored maps, and a sea of impersonal humanity. I emerged near St. James Center, a warehouse converted to a youth hostel. Of course there were dregs there as well as straight Americans, Japanese and Scots. Some of the Hippies sat reverently for hours picking off parasites under the dim glow of a hanging light bulb while the sun was setting and the church bells began ringing. Two twin heroin dealers came in and the Hippie in the cot next to me began shooting up. Girls were theoretically restricted to the second floor although many frequented the first floor during the day.
I managed to see the usual London attractions like the British Museum where the Tutankamem Exhibit was showing, the Tower of London and the Crown Jewels, Parliament, Piccadilly, Trafalgar Square, and the Commons. There’s nothing homogeneous about London: the Indian ticket taker, the visiting French children, the pretentious aristocrats with derby hats and pin-striped suits, the common people, the plump rosy faces of the children, the unshaven demeanor of a factory worker, and the scurrying housewife with bobby socks and pram. I had breakfast at Victoria Station and a real Indian ate my leftovers. The frenzy, pollution, and overcrowded conditions make London almost unbearable at times. Curses, screeches, honks, revving engines, and sirens also produce bad memories. Large cities are all the same. I got out my National Geographic map and began planning to head to Scotland without meeting the queen.
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