Ah, London!

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that before London becomes wonderful, it is often horrible.

I remember my first trip to London in 1986, with a PLU group led by the wonderful English professors Dennis and Gloria Martin (affectionately known as Den and Glo). They were true Anglophiles who had managed to wangle frequent trips to England by guiding groups of students abroad. The lucky students benefited from Den and Glo's travel experience and affection for all things English. Dennis and Gloria benefited, it must be assumed, by scoring subsidized travel in the guise of employment and education.

Our first morning at the Harlingford Hotel (where I have stayed a dozen or more times since), Gloria came down to breakfast telling how in her excitement at being in London, she had flung open the window in her room, sighing "Ah, London!" The old window promptly slammed down on her hand, causing injury painful enough to necessitate her taking one of the painkillers she had brought along in case of emergency.

That's London—before the pleasure, there is pain.

I warn everyone who is going to London that the first day they arrive, after flying for nine hours (often under uncomfortable conditions) and enduring a time change which keeps them up for more than 24 hours, they will probably hate London. It will seem dirty, dark, and pretty much unpleasant. (Unless it is August. Then it will seem dirty and extremely hot.) This is true, to some extent, even for people like me who have been to London many times and love it wholeheartedly.

Now, the degree to which you hate it on the first day will depend in part on how miserable your flight is, and how you get from the airport to the hotel. If you take for example my first trip in 1986, with a typically dreadful economy flight (though on British Air, so at least there were no layovers), and couple that with a long tube ride (more than an hour, much of it standing up) on the Piccadilly line to Russell Square, and top that off by walking several blocks from the tube station to the hotel, towing a large, heavy, old-style hardsided Samsonite suitcase with wobbly wheels—well then, you will hate it a lot. If you are able to fly luxuriously in business class, and travel by taxi or at least Heathrow Express, then you will probably hate it just a little.

If you can make it through that first unpleasant afternoon, and manage to stay awake long enough in the evening so you can sleep through most of the night without waking up for good at 2 or 3 a.m., then the next day the sun will rise on an entirely different London. Even if it is not a sunny day.

Our trip this time was somewhere in the middle of the "hating London" spectrum. The flight was moderately uncomfortable, though we all did manage to sleep some, and we took a taxi from the airport to the hotel (I took my last trip from Heathrow to Russell Square by tube in approximately 1997). (Heathrow Express started in 1998, but I prefer a taxi unless my destination is Paddington Station anyway.) Taking a taxi through central London has to be considered a scenic tour as well as transportation, as you pass by many famous sights, including Hyde Park and Harrods. But the ticking meter in the crawling traffic is a source of tension—a taxi cannot be called a cheap form of transportation!

Our first view of the Harlingford (Welcome to the Harlingford) was marred by the torn up streets in the crescent in front of the hotel (Cartwright Gardens). We learned later that the Victorian water mains—some pipes untouched for 100 years) were being replaced. The cosmetic disruption was nothing, however, to the shock of finding our reservations messed up. Although I had a room for the two nights we had intended, my parents' room was only booked for one night. My confirmation email proved that we were entitled to a room, and luckily the helpful desk clerk was able to sort things out, although it would require moving them from their second floor room after the first day to a basement room.

The next rather disturbing moment was running into Andrew, the owner of the hotel who had taken over from his parents years ago. (Andrew's full name is Andrew Davies, although he is not the same Andrew Davies who wrote the screenplay for Bridget Jones's Diary (Collector's Edition) and numerous other English films and miniseries.) Andrew is about four years older than me. I remember this because Andrew was 24 when I first stayed here with the PLU group. (At that time he was the desk clerk.) I remember him telling me and my friend Jean how he was a bit wrecked after staying out late partying. Some ten years later, Andrew was running the hotel and was tired in the mornings from being kept up by a new baby. Another ten years or so later, we noticed with dismay that Andrew did not look so good—he was thinner, his teeth were stained (perhaps from smoking or that famous lack of English dental hygiene), and I thought (with horror) that he looked old. What's more, we jumped to some conclusion that perhaps his marriage had broken up, which seemed disturbing although we had never even seen his wife.

Despite the distressing circumstances, we managed to rally and make a trip out to validate our Britrail passes in preparation for a day trip on Friday. King's Cross Station is only a short walk from the hotel.

Although St. Pancras is the more beautiful and impressive looking station, King's Cross is truly the hub of London travel, both as a massive railway depot, and a linking point for several Underground (tube) lines.

I perked up my late afternoon a bit more by a visit to one of London's many Starbucks, several of which are happily in the vicinity of my hotel. (After the first I stopped at was closed early from renovation, I hiked down past Euston Square to find another I remembered. I later learned there are now additional Starbucks kiosks at Euston Station and, even closer, in Brunswick Shopping Center just down the street from the Harlingford.

We finished the evening with a massive order of fish and chips from a nearby chippery. I thought I was placing a modest order, but ended up with two piles of chips so big that we threw away half, even after gorging ourselves beyond all reason. (We ate the gigantic pieces of fish, though. At least I ate all of mine.)

After that I managed to keep myself awake till 9:00, when I could not keep conscious any longer. I slept like a log until 11:30 p.m., when I woke up. I woke up again around 2:30 a.m., to the sounds of an extremely loud and profane dispute in the street below. Eventually the brawlers went on their way, and I eventually slept again until 5:30 a.m., when I got up to go running in Regent's Park.

So this story of a dark and gloomy arrival in London is meant to end with a sunny turnabout the next day. And in fact it does, though it has nothing to do with the weather. Our hotel room mixup was further ameliorated by the helpful desk clerk telling us that because of the problem, she would not charge us for the second night in the changed room (plus she herself would move the luggage down four flights of stairs). And we heard from staff (who remembered us from visits past), that Andrew was leaving on holiday with his family, so all our fears about him going to seed were misplaced. (Although he did look older than before. Funny how that happens.)

And just like every second day in London, after the travel exhaustion has been slept off and a new day has begun, we started the day with a traditional Harlingford breakfast, choosing from a buffet of fruits and yoghurt and cereals, plus a selection of cooked breakfast items, including eggs, bacon and/or sausage, and a new item on the menu, "Andrew's favorite," scrambled eggs with smoked salmon. All washed down with racks of toast and pots of tea and coffee.

And we were off.