On Wednesdays, Angie, our knowledgeable curmudgeon of a guide, reveals historical London to us one tourist trap at a time. We began this week's walk with a visit to the Tower of London.
Exiting the Tower Hill tube station, my eyes met a fantastic view of the fortress. It stood massive, ancient, and ominous. Cloud piercing turrets rise above the castle to remind tourists that 1,000 years ago in England's history, had you been facing the Tower from outside the tube station, you would soon have an arrow through your head or heart.
For a couple of minutes, we stood on a large mound of grass covered prettily with ice and slush. Angie politely interrupted our excitable picture taking and announced, "You ought to know - only 7 people were ever executed in the Tower. The rest of the condemned prisoners met their gory ends at the very spot you stand at right now." Hundreds were hung on the patch of land where we stood. Many were drawn and quartered, only after having been dragged through the city's roads from a carriage, in the process having their bones broken and skulls cracked. Needless to say, being condemned of treason in Medieval England would be a horrendous fate.
Thankfully we don't live in Medieval Times (they bathed... hardly ever and purportedly smelled like dick cheese). The Tower of England no longer poses a threat to layman like you and I, and frankly looks a little ridiculous juxtaposed against the modern London cityscape. I felt like I was entering a real-life Medieval Times (the kitschy amusement park in Buena Park featuring jousting and turkey legs). The ticket attendant, dressed head to toe in Beefeater garb, looked ever bit as miserable as the ride attendants at Magic Mountain or Knott's Berry Farm (where they aren't paid to fasten 'magic of Disney' smiles on their faces).
Inside the walls we heard more of the Tower's infamous history. A lot of bloody, family in-fighting occurred. Shit, my family squabs over frivolous shit all the time, can you imagine what'd happen if there was a royal Crown to contest for? The Thai's would be dead as dust.
The rest of the tour included a lot of jewels and treasures as well as King Henry the VIII's collection of armory and battle gear. A little something for both the girls and boys (and the gays and the sadomasochistic).
On Friday we were introduced to London's greatest treasure (not the Queen, sorry Courtney): Borough Market. Borough Market is a weekend farmer's market in the truest sense of the word. Farmers from outside London come into the city with an assortment of organically grown fruits and vegetables, fresh livestock, nuts and berries, gourmet chocolates, hand pressed apple juice, homemade cheese, (good shit ad nauseum...)
The best thing about this place are the food vendors. I was walking around with my mouth agape, completely enthralled by the amount and quality of delicious meals being served left and right. West Indian curries, roasted pork baguettes topped with chunky apple sauce, catfish and chips, wild boar sammys with bacon, authentic prosciutto baps with fresh mozzarella.
Santa Monica and the Grove Farmer's Markets can bow out and acquiesce to Borough Market, for no other farmer's market can compare. You guys suck dick. Now go in the corner and cry. Shunned!
The market is nestled underneath a highway overpass and some nondescript alleyways. When we arrived at 11AM, the mass of tents and stands were unassuming and quiet. As we learned a couple of hours later, that was merely the quiet before the storm. Because it seemed everyone in the West End made it out for lunchtime. Hoards of Londoners rushed through the market and stood in lengthy lines for a quick bite before they returned to their lives. Businesspeople and schoolchildren, college kids and city punks, English, American, Irish, Spanish and French all united by the promise of good, honest food. And some solace from the frenetic hustle and bustle of the City. Comida. Lunch. Mittag. Dejeuner. At the market it all means the same: sanctuary.
I cannot wait to take Kat here when she comes in late February. Let's hope she'll be nice enough to buy something for you. ('Cuz I sure as hell won't.)
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