Last Sunday, the American Society in London held a picnic to celebrate Independence Day at Winfield House, otherwise known as the US Ambassador's residence. The party was off by six days as Fourth of July was A) a Monday and therefore a proper work day in Britain and B) the embassy staff had to spend the weekend prior to the Fourth gearing up for the G8 summit in Scotland.
Winfield House is a beautiful Neo-Georgian mansion built in the 1930s by "poor little rich girl" Barbara Hutton, the heiress to the Woolworth fortune who numbered Cary Grant among her many husbands. It sits on 12 acres of private gardens inside Regent's Park in North London. During World War II the Royal Air Force used the mansion and grounds to house a balloon unit, and when Hutton returned to the house after the war she sold the now much worse for wear property to the US government for $1. It's been the home of the US ambassador ever since.
Sunday was hot, sunny and bright, with just enough humidity to push the heat into uncomfortable. We took the Tube, fairly empty for a Sunday, up to Baker Street, then walked past the Sherlock Holmes memorabilia shops to Regent's Park. The paths through the park were crowded and the mood rather festive - bombs may have gone off a few days ago but that's the last thing to stop Londoners from enjoying rare moments of shining sun.
To get to Winfield House, we needed to walk up a street that had been closed to car traffic. At the bottom of the street was a very large mosque. Standing on the corner was a policeman in his distinctive tall, rounded hat, white shirt and billy club. I couldn't help but be struck by the proximity. Was the policeman there to protect the mosque from hate crimes? Or the partygoers attending a very USA-centric event from extremists? Or both?
At the top of the street, there were more policemen/women. So there were concerns about the party, after all. I felt for the Met officers; I'm sure they had better things to do than babysit a bunch of Yanks. And it was HOT on the asphalt; I was sweating in my light cotton shirt and floaty peasant skirt. Those poor bobbies in their dark hats and kevlar vests, standing full bore in the sun.
Attending a picnic at a US Ambassador's residence is like boarding a plane: you must hold your own ticket, in your own name; your name is checked against your passport; your bag is searched; and a metal detector is the official welcome gate to the party. However, the food was much better at the end of this security process than it normally is on a plane. Instead of sandwiches made the day before and served on a tray the size of a paperback book, we were able to choose from hamburgers, hotdogs, steak, barbeque chicken, salad, corn on the cob, watermelon and ice cream. Oh, and crepes. 'Cause nothing says Fourth of July better than a crepe just like the street vendors back home in Paris make. Not to the mention that the chicken and steak were provided by Outback Steakhouse. At least the French had something to do with the American Revolution - namely, their help pushed the Americans into the win column. The Aussies, on the other hand...the connection is lost on me. But the chicken was excellent, even if sadly there were no Bloomin' Onions in sight.
We grabbed food and looked for the nearest shady spot. Luckily, there were plenty of grassy space under leafy trees, and we had prime people watching opportunities. My favorite sightings? Three young boys, tearing away, racing around the lawn. One was dressed in a homemade Uncle Sam costume, blue cotton tails flapping behind him. A young girl, about six, dressed in a flowery sundress, chatting with the two policemen armed with sub-machine guns. An incongruous but oddly sweet image. Too hard to put into words but the sight encapsulated all the things I felt: hope for the future as embodied by the young girl; joy in communication with others, regardless of accent; the sadness of seeing machine guns at a picnic filled with children, so much a statement of the current times.
We enjoyed wandering the gorgeous grounds of the Winfield House - even the port-a-potties were class acts, set in a wooded glade, with vases of fresh-cut flowers and posh hand lotion in the loos. Our d'oh! moment came when we were trying to identify the various state flags flanking the entrance to the house, and even competing with others trying to do the same: the task became much easier once we realized the states were in alphabetical order, and then we all fell down laughing when we saw the ID markers at the base of each flagpole.
The charge d'affairs (the new ambassador has yet to move in) gave the requisite speech of the day; because the date had been pushed back, what should have been a Anglo-American celebratory event now reflected the pain and horror of last Thursday. I didn't necessarily agree with the words; I'm not a fan of the current US administration. But I do hope the Fourth of July picnic in London goes on for another 111 years, and that the policemen who attend future parties will be able to relax their grip on the weaponry. And come enjoy the shade instead of boiling out on the street.
2005-07-11
2005-07-09
Recovery and press post mortem
The pulse of London, at least in the West End, feels back to its usual hyperkinetic self.
The busses and tube trains are operating almost at normal capacity; the Circle, City & Hammersmith, and portions of the Picadilly Line remain down. But the Central line, which is my usual conduit into the city, is running fine. The trains have been lightly occupied during the day, but last night it was standing room only.
The stores in Oxford Street, in the midst of the half-yearly sales season, are doing brisk business. Women in burkas and head scarves search the half-price rails next to teenagers in skimpy tank tops and mini skirts. You hear ten different languages from every corner of the globe for every one overheard conversation in English.
The line at TKTS was short but bustling; we saw As You Like It in a fairly full theatre (the play has had so-so reviews so I doubt even before the terrorist attack it played to sold-out audiences. I'll save the review for my next theatre round-up but let's just say Jude Law probably doesn't need to worry about demand for Sienna Miller's acting services causing too many separations in their future).
No one on I saw on the tube or the bus seemed overly concerned or worried about lightening stricking again, although the papers today made references to worried commuters. It's in the back of your mind - how can it help not be? - but I caught few side glances or appraising looks despite carrying a backpack. But then, I doubt I look like anyone's conception of a bomber.
In fact, if I didn't read the papers or watch the news, I'd be hard-pressed to tell London was the scene of a recent terrorist atrocity. There's a lot of talk about the British resiliancy, the British "suck it up" attitude, the British "just get on with it" reaction to adversity. It's all true. The Brits also seem to be innate pessimists, which serves them better in times like this - it's just confirmation of what they already expected, so why moan about it?
And then there's the British press.
It's incredible to me that journalism here is such a blood sport. And I mean sport. There's little regard for "who, what, when, where, and how;" it's much more fun just to make stuff up and apologize later if you get caught. Press objectivity is an oxymoron (along with customer service and good Mexican food); opinion is presented as fact and vice versa. Events are personalized and told through a subjective lens. For world events, I read US newspapers such as the NY Times, LA Times and Wall Street Journal or else I'd have no topline, objective summary. For British events, I have to read two newspapers just to get a balanced, complete view: The Times, which is considered to be conversative, and The Guardian, which is considered to be liberal. If I just read one, I'd only have a very skewed, one-sided perspective. And neither of them is the most read paper in Britian - that distinction belongs to the tabloids such as The Sun and News of the World, which don't even pretend to be hard news outlets. Pity the Brit whose conception of the world is formed by these papers.
The busses and tube trains are operating almost at normal capacity; the Circle, City & Hammersmith, and portions of the Picadilly Line remain down. But the Central line, which is my usual conduit into the city, is running fine. The trains have been lightly occupied during the day, but last night it was standing room only.
The stores in Oxford Street, in the midst of the half-yearly sales season, are doing brisk business. Women in burkas and head scarves search the half-price rails next to teenagers in skimpy tank tops and mini skirts. You hear ten different languages from every corner of the globe for every one overheard conversation in English.
The line at TKTS was short but bustling; we saw As You Like It in a fairly full theatre (the play has had so-so reviews so I doubt even before the terrorist attack it played to sold-out audiences. I'll save the review for my next theatre round-up but let's just say Jude Law probably doesn't need to worry about demand for Sienna Miller's acting services causing too many separations in their future).
No one on I saw on the tube or the bus seemed overly concerned or worried about lightening stricking again, although the papers today made references to worried commuters. It's in the back of your mind - how can it help not be? - but I caught few side glances or appraising looks despite carrying a backpack. But then, I doubt I look like anyone's conception of a bomber.
In fact, if I didn't read the papers or watch the news, I'd be hard-pressed to tell London was the scene of a recent terrorist atrocity. There's a lot of talk about the British resiliancy, the British "suck it up" attitude, the British "just get on with it" reaction to adversity. It's all true. The Brits also seem to be innate pessimists, which serves them better in times like this - it's just confirmation of what they already expected, so why moan about it?
And then there's the British press.
It's incredible to me that journalism here is such a blood sport. And I mean sport. There's little regard for "who, what, when, where, and how;" it's much more fun just to make stuff up and apologize later if you get caught. Press objectivity is an oxymoron (along with customer service and good Mexican food); opinion is presented as fact and vice versa. Events are personalized and told through a subjective lens. For world events, I read US newspapers such as the NY Times, LA Times and Wall Street Journal or else I'd have no topline, objective summary. For British events, I have to read two newspapers just to get a balanced, complete view: The Times, which is considered to be conversative, and The Guardian, which is considered to be liberal. If I just read one, I'd only have a very skewed, one-sided perspective. And neither of them is the most read paper in Britian - that distinction belongs to the tabloids such as The Sun and News of the World, which don't even pretend to be hard news outlets. Pity the Brit whose conception of the world is formed by these papers.
2005-07-08
Under attack
On a pretty September morning nearly four years ago, I woke up in my one-bedroom apartment in Los Angeles, took a shower, got dressed, and turned on the television.
On a split screen, one side showed smoke pouring out of the Twin Towers, the other showed smoke pouring out of the Pentagon.
"What film is this?" I thought, and I started clicking through my mental index of action films with buildings on fire. As a former film studies major and current entertainment industry employee, it's a pretty comprehensive list.
Then Dan Rather came on the screen. "Dan Rather was in a movie?" I wondered aloud, and even as it slowly began to sink in that I was watching live, actual news footage and not a fictional film, I still ran through movie titles in my head.
That's how surreal the day felt to me. I even kept my early morning dental appointment. As the hygienist and I silently watched the events unfolding on the small TV mounted above the dental chair, my cell phone would ring. And ring. I would interrupt the hygienist's work to speak to friends, relatives, my staff. It wasn't until work was cancelled for the day that I finally understood that the world had changed. And it would never be quite the same again.
Although, y'know, you live your life. It goes on. So today, I woke up in my London maisonette, got dressed, kissed my husband goodbye, went to the gym, showered, got dressed again, and got on the Tube. As I passed through the turnstiles the message board caught my eye: three stations closed due to "power failure:" Bank, Westminster and Liverpool Street. Station closures are common enough that I didn't give it another thought except to note that three seemed rather excessive and, with the successful Olympic bid now counting down a clock, I hoped Transport for London would be able to sort that out in the next seven years. I got off at my regular tube stop and walked to work, unaware that the next station on the line would be the scene of a bomb attack.
I'm safe, my husband is safe, my co-workers and friends are safe, and I am incredibly grateful to be able to type these words. I'll be angry soon, but for now I am just happy that everyone I care about is healthy and accounted for.
It's back to feeling surreal; I'm watching it on the television like I did four years ago, even though the events are much closer geographically this time. The shock and horror diminish the further in time we get from the bombs; the news has gone from covering breaking events to talking heads sorting through the scant available evidence, trying to make reasonable the unreasonable, trying to enforce an order on chaos. The talk in the hallway has shifted from hushed murmurs to excitable chatter to impatient wondering about when can we go home? How will we get home?
****
They lock our building down until around noon. The police evacuated the buildings across the street, but told us to stay put. See, we have blast proof glass; the guys across the street just have the normal break-y kind. Ah, the advantages of working overseas for a US company - you automatically think you will be a target. Members of my staff tried to go next door, to see the colleagues who work there, but were refused entry even with their security passes. However, they said that Number 38 busses were lined up and down the street. The rumor is that the police are checking them for explosives since apparently it was a Number 38 that blew up in Russell Square, just 'round the corner.
Sirens scream past.
There are only three kinds of sandwiches left in the canteen downstairs. It's been raided by the locked-in employees who would normally go elsewhere for substenance. I'm starving. My Starbucks latte and low fat carrot cake are long consumed memories; they were eaten pre-bomb news and so it feels like I last ate an eon ago. I take the most appealing of the bunch: chicken and pesto on white sandwich bread. When I get the sandwich upstairs to my desk, I discover the bread has been buttered. WTF??? Butter on a chicken and pesto sandwich??? While I have long known of the British penchant for buttering their sandwiches regardless of filling, this throws me. Badly. I've lost my equilibrium for even the most trivial of matters.
I could have had the fish, the featured hot meal of the day.
But I couldn't face eating a trout with skin, tail fins, and bones still intact. Not today.
****
At 3:30, Human Resources finally gives us the all clear to go home. There's been little enough work done, although there has also been little panic or moaning. I have a feeling no one will call the emotional health hotline number with which HR kindly provides us. We start to make travel plans. Some of us will walk to the nearest open train station or to home itself. One brought his bicycle to work and can pedal home. Another will meet her partner at his work and then bum a ride from a friend. Still another gets a ride in a senior executive's car service. I'm walking.
The streets are crowded. I've never seen the sidewalks so full. Rivers of humanity, flowing through London with the strength of the Thames exponentially multiplied. I'm jostled and bumped, flotsam in the current.
I left my work tote at the office, but the gym bag is strapped to my back - Monday will be difficult enough without dealing with damp, sweaty clothes left to ferment for three days. It's heavy, thanks to the book, water, and wedge espadrilles I threw in. But the Nikes are on my feet. I'm now sold on going to the gym - thanks to forcing myself out of bed at 6:00 a.m., I missed being trapped on the tube and now have comfy shoes for the four mile walk home. I will never bitch about my body's refusal to keep weight off without working out again.
The walk to Marble Arch goes quickly in comradely conversation. I say goodbye to my co-workers, who are off to scavenge a train at Paddington. My husband is waiting for me at the marble monument, near the spot where once grew a tree where the villains, traitors and just plain unfortunates of an earlier London were hung. The street bears the old name of the gallows: Tyburn. It makes me realize that life has always been uncertain - and religion has always been used as an excuse to kill and maim political rivals. I would still rather live in the 21st century with al-Quaeda's cowardly, unmanly and blasphemous attacks than to live in, say, Tudor England during Henry VIII's reformation or his daughter Queen Mary's attempt to reinstate the Roman Catholic Church.
Hyde Park is full of pedestrians. My husband remarks it looks more like a highway than a park path. Sirens continue to scream past.
We run into good friends at our local Tesco. They agree to come over for dessert after we finish our respective dinners. We nurture our friendship over strawberries and cream and share our stories, our near misses. It would be the perfect ending to any other day.
On a split screen, one side showed smoke pouring out of the Twin Towers, the other showed smoke pouring out of the Pentagon.
"What film is this?" I thought, and I started clicking through my mental index of action films with buildings on fire. As a former film studies major and current entertainment industry employee, it's a pretty comprehensive list.
Then Dan Rather came on the screen. "Dan Rather was in a movie?" I wondered aloud, and even as it slowly began to sink in that I was watching live, actual news footage and not a fictional film, I still ran through movie titles in my head.
That's how surreal the day felt to me. I even kept my early morning dental appointment. As the hygienist and I silently watched the events unfolding on the small TV mounted above the dental chair, my cell phone would ring. And ring. I would interrupt the hygienist's work to speak to friends, relatives, my staff. It wasn't until work was cancelled for the day that I finally understood that the world had changed. And it would never be quite the same again.
Although, y'know, you live your life. It goes on. So today, I woke up in my London maisonette, got dressed, kissed my husband goodbye, went to the gym, showered, got dressed again, and got on the Tube. As I passed through the turnstiles the message board caught my eye: three stations closed due to "power failure:" Bank, Westminster and Liverpool Street. Station closures are common enough that I didn't give it another thought except to note that three seemed rather excessive and, with the successful Olympic bid now counting down a clock, I hoped Transport for London would be able to sort that out in the next seven years. I got off at my regular tube stop and walked to work, unaware that the next station on the line would be the scene of a bomb attack.
I'm safe, my husband is safe, my co-workers and friends are safe, and I am incredibly grateful to be able to type these words. I'll be angry soon, but for now I am just happy that everyone I care about is healthy and accounted for.
It's back to feeling surreal; I'm watching it on the television like I did four years ago, even though the events are much closer geographically this time. The shock and horror diminish the further in time we get from the bombs; the news has gone from covering breaking events to talking heads sorting through the scant available evidence, trying to make reasonable the unreasonable, trying to enforce an order on chaos. The talk in the hallway has shifted from hushed murmurs to excitable chatter to impatient wondering about when can we go home? How will we get home?
****
They lock our building down until around noon. The police evacuated the buildings across the street, but told us to stay put. See, we have blast proof glass; the guys across the street just have the normal break-y kind. Ah, the advantages of working overseas for a US company - you automatically think you will be a target. Members of my staff tried to go next door, to see the colleagues who work there, but were refused entry even with their security passes. However, they said that Number 38 busses were lined up and down the street. The rumor is that the police are checking them for explosives since apparently it was a Number 38 that blew up in Russell Square, just 'round the corner.
Sirens scream past.
There are only three kinds of sandwiches left in the canteen downstairs. It's been raided by the locked-in employees who would normally go elsewhere for substenance. I'm starving. My Starbucks latte and low fat carrot cake are long consumed memories; they were eaten pre-bomb news and so it feels like I last ate an eon ago. I take the most appealing of the bunch: chicken and pesto on white sandwich bread. When I get the sandwich upstairs to my desk, I discover the bread has been buttered. WTF??? Butter on a chicken and pesto sandwich??? While I have long known of the British penchant for buttering their sandwiches regardless of filling, this throws me. Badly. I've lost my equilibrium for even the most trivial of matters.
I could have had the fish, the featured hot meal of the day.
But I couldn't face eating a trout with skin, tail fins, and bones still intact. Not today.
****
At 3:30, Human Resources finally gives us the all clear to go home. There's been little enough work done, although there has also been little panic or moaning. I have a feeling no one will call the emotional health hotline number with which HR kindly provides us. We start to make travel plans. Some of us will walk to the nearest open train station or to home itself. One brought his bicycle to work and can pedal home. Another will meet her partner at his work and then bum a ride from a friend. Still another gets a ride in a senior executive's car service. I'm walking.
The streets are crowded. I've never seen the sidewalks so full. Rivers of humanity, flowing through London with the strength of the Thames exponentially multiplied. I'm jostled and bumped, flotsam in the current.
I left my work tote at the office, but the gym bag is strapped to my back - Monday will be difficult enough without dealing with damp, sweaty clothes left to ferment for three days. It's heavy, thanks to the book, water, and wedge espadrilles I threw in. But the Nikes are on my feet. I'm now sold on going to the gym - thanks to forcing myself out of bed at 6:00 a.m., I missed being trapped on the tube and now have comfy shoes for the four mile walk home. I will never bitch about my body's refusal to keep weight off without working out again.
The walk to Marble Arch goes quickly in comradely conversation. I say goodbye to my co-workers, who are off to scavenge a train at Paddington. My husband is waiting for me at the marble monument, near the spot where once grew a tree where the villains, traitors and just plain unfortunates of an earlier London were hung. The street bears the old name of the gallows: Tyburn. It makes me realize that life has always been uncertain - and religion has always been used as an excuse to kill and maim political rivals. I would still rather live in the 21st century with al-Quaeda's cowardly, unmanly and blasphemous attacks than to live in, say, Tudor England during Henry VIII's reformation or his daughter Queen Mary's attempt to reinstate the Roman Catholic Church.
Hyde Park is full of pedestrians. My husband remarks it looks more like a highway than a park path. Sirens continue to scream past.
We run into good friends at our local Tesco. They agree to come over for dessert after we finish our respective dinners. We nurture our friendship over strawberries and cream and share our stories, our near misses. It would be the perfect ending to any other day.
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