Come back November - all is forgiven

So far, St. Swithin is proving to be one damn fine meteorologist.  We've had at least one rain shower a day since.
 
But yesterday, after the morning shower, the sun came out - and brought along its buddy humidity to play.
 
Now, many people find humidity to be an every day occurance so I'm sure to get little sympathy.  But there's a reaon why I live in Southern California and not, say, the Amazonian rain forest.  LA may be the weather home of the hot, but it is also the home of the dry.  No heat index for us (although we get fire hazard warnings instead, so I'm not sure we win).
 
In fact, living with humidity is much better than fearing all your earthly possessions will go up in a brush fire.  But since the closest brush to me in LA was at least several miles of concrete and asphalt away, I was pretty content.  Not even desert-like days caused much concern, because the wonderful thing about living in a arid environment is that no cloud cover means no natural blanket keeping the day's heat from escaping into the ether.   You're pretty much guaranteed a temperate night.  And it gets cooler the closer you are to the Pacific Ocean breezes.  Since I lived four miles from the beach, it was the rare night when I cursed my building's owners for being too cheap to invest in central air.
 
But as I discovered yesterday, humidity lives up to all its cliches.  And to add insult to injury, I have curly hair that no amount of Frizz-ease will subdue.   For some reason, rainy weather just makes it form more intense ringlets; but humidity makes it resemble a dandelion in severe need of good puff of breath.
 
So come back November-like weather.  All is forgiven.  I don't want to wear my summer clothes after all - especially if it means feeling like I am taking a bath in them each time I walk outside.
 
(Lucky for me, today is back to overcast and dull - yay!)

Forty Days of Rain

America has Groundhog Day (although it's a European tradition) and Punxsutawney Phil.

England has St. Swinthin's Day and Winchester Cathedral. Apparently, the medieval church builders, being deprived of meteorology, came up with their own poetic means of forecast.

The rhyme goes 'St Swithin's Day, if it does rain, full forty days, it will remain. St Swithin's Day, if it be fair, for forty days, t'will rain no more.'

It certainly looked wet at Winchester today.

While I'm not taking the weather personally, it does seem like the clouds are conspiring to acclimate SoCal me to London life as quickly as possible. It is breaking me of the desire to buy floaty sundresses and open-toed sandals, which is a Very Good Thing as soon closet space will become a barely remembered dream. Better to use what little storage I will have for clothes that can actually serve a purpose.

But the dreary light is getting all of us down, locals included. According to GM.TV, this is the coldest summer in fifty-seven years. Living in perpetual November is just making us dread the actual November (and December and January and February). Without memories of summer sun to get us through the winter, it's going to be a long cold dark one indeed.

Geese and Ducks and Swans Oh My

There was a Tube strike last week, but I wasn’t upset about it. Instead, it forced me to walk to work, something I often thought about doing but wimped out at the last minute. Well, not really wimped out but dithered around the apartment until I was late to work, and the Tube, while not the most pleasant form of transportation, at least moves rather quickly.

I do walk home whenever I can. While the weather is not exactly summer by Southern California standards, I thoroughly appreciate the extended daylight hours. The sun doesn’t start to set until well after nine, which means I can work a long day yet still enjoy a well-lit journey home.

And enjoy the walk I do. I leave work and within fifteen minutes I’m near Convent Garden. I window shop, which is dangerous right now thanks to the large sale signs. L.K. Bennett in particular has lovely shoes on display. I admire the old pubs, painted green and blue and red, small reminders of how London looked in Georgian, Regency, Victorian times. Many are still housed in their original buildings, holding the surrounding concrete and glass at bay. Sometimes I stop at Marks & Spencer to pick up food for dinner.

Ten more minutes of walking and I’m in front of St. Martin’s in the Field, a beautiful 18th century church with a wonderful cafeteria in the crypt and jazz or classical concerts in the vestry nearly every night. Across the street is the National Portrait Gallery, and around the bend is the National Gallery and Trafalgar Square. I stride through flocks of tourists and pigeons enjoying the broad steps, expansive plaza, and stone lions. Nelson gazes at the horizon from high above, searching for the sea but settling for the Thames.

I hop-skip-dash across the roads, avoiding red double-decker busses and black (and pink and blue and multihued with ads) taxis. Now begins my favorite portion of the walk, and I feel the tension leaving my shoulders and lower back.

I pass under the classical stone arches that mark the entrance to the Mall. At the other end is Buckingham Palace, but I will get off the Mall as soon as I am able and make a beeline for soft green lawns and sharp gravel paths of St. James’s Park. Once grass is under my feet I can feel my sanity building a reserve to help fight another day.

St. James’s Park has been called the loveliest park in London. At first I preferred the expansive space of Hyde Park, the broad sidewalks of Kensington Gardens. But now St. James’s holds most of my heart.

It’s the ducks. And swans and geese and pelicans. St. James’s has the most wonderful pond at its center, surrounded by woods and gardens. Hyde Park has the Serpentine and the Long Water, and Kensington has the Round Pound. But those are obviously man-made lakes, manicured and well delineated. St. James’s pond feels more genuine, like a tiny pocket of London that the developers forgot (or more likely, weren’t allowed by the Royal Family) to touch. And while I am far from an expert in avian psychology, the waterfowl seem to agree.

It’s duckling season at St. James’s, and the families are out in full flock. The youngsters range in age from just out of the egg fluffballs to gawky adolescents. The babies flock around the mother, who extends a sharp beak to anyone who dares to come to close. The seagulls especially are warned off.

I find ducks endearing. Maybe it’s the comical waddle when they are on land, or the graceful dives when they are in water. Ducks haven’t always been portrayed as the most amiable of characters; Daffy is a rascal while Donald is just irritable. But the ducks of St. James’s are my favorite London companions, now that my husband has gone back to the States.

I exit St. James’s Park at Queen Anne’s Gate. The brown-brick terraced homes with white trim that line both sides of the street are especially pretty. I envy the people who live and work there; imagine having St. James’s Park as your backyard. Supposedly, on August 1 the ghost of Queen Anne walks up and down the street three times. Even she wants to stay in Queen Anne’s Gate.

The Tube station is next; I congratulate myself on avoiding a smelly, dusty ride home. It’s housed underneath a Roaring Twenties ziggurat complete with Tamara style stone carvings. By the time I normally get home, the small shopping mall is closed. Everything is closed, except for the pubs that seem to attract lots of young men in white shirts and striped ties.

The streets are quiet between the station and my flat. I have now learned to look the right way (literally) when crossing the street, but it is normally not required. The only traffic is on Victoria Road. I cross it under the watchful eye of the policeman guarding New Scotland Yard, automatic rifle at his side.

The police headquarters is the last major landmark I pass on my journey home. Were I to continue up Victoria Road until it ended, I’d be in front of Westminster Abbey. A few more minutes of walking would bring me to Parliament and Big Ben. But I turn at the Starbucks sign for the comforts of my small studio flat, my temporary home until I find a more permanent one.