Chiswick, Encore

Birthday girl, so beautiful

A few days ago, my friend asked me if I’m more energized by being alone or with others, a discussion her family had over Christmas. I thought back to the last time I’d learned results from Meyers Briggs, the dot sitting exactly between the E(extrovert) and I(introvert), which seemed right. I couldn’t live without people around me, being with them gives me great energy and joy. But it’s only in solitude that I can access clarity and purpose, not to mention, writing. My reason for being MIA.

Only a month ago, I was dealing with the challenge of being in Aix alone and knowing no one. And while it was uncomfortable, I was starting to see a path forward and steps I could take. Since then, it's been Christmas and there have been many most welcome distractions in the form of friends and family, good reminders to enjoy the vistas on the path while also plotting it. Sometimes we get exactly what we need. 

Nat and I both arrived back in London the day prior to my dear aunt’s birthday, and were able to celebrate at the most welcoming Tony and Brita’s house, where we sat by a Christmas tree with lit candles and Tony dished out a feast of monkfish with olives, potatoes and tomatoes while our end brought up the rear with a NY Times lemon cake made with eyeballed quantities due to measuring equipment apparently unavailable. Not bad considering. Tony mentioned Marmite Mike would be joining us, whom I excitedly imagined as a tall man covered with brown; sticky face, slicked backed hair, shiny eyebrows. I asked Tony several times why that was his name. At first he didn’t reply, perhaps thinking I was making a bad joke, but eventually he patiently explained, in his most perfect accent, that he was saying “My mate, Mike”. Oh gahd…

Brita and her German Christmas tree

We sadly missed the carol service I’d bought tickets for at St Bartholomew’s Church, as there are apparently more than one in England, I having booked for the one in Huddersfield, closer to the Scottish border than to Chiswick. But we managed to bust into a kids service where each of us were given a fresh orange with four toothpicks sticking out horizontally and equidistantly,  each covered with a large marshmallow. On top of the orange was a hole, a piece of foil and then a white candle jabbed in. The four-year old we were with, rather than singing along to Silent Night, made quick and stealthy work of all 20 marshmallows, satisfied and seemingly no worse for the wear.

Despite being only seven of us, Christmas was a boisterous affair, thanks to my two handsome and dear second cousins who brought a sackful of jollyness and superior cooking skills, resulting in many laughs and a table laden with all manner of things. My aunt was Mother Christmas, producing stockings unlike any Nat had received from her American Santa. Gasps and laughs prevailed. We were joined for dinner by a professional trumpeter who led us in many songs, including at the request of one of the lads, God Save The Queen (or is it King now?) which he apparently sung so out of tune, he was told to stop as it was disrespectful.

Baz, Sarah and Humf on Christmas Day

The ladies

Stocking loot

Christmas dinner, plates clean

Our accompanist

We were invited to lunch at the Beehive Cottage in Barnes, which, if you read Beatrix Potter books, you'd associate with one of the little houses the animals live in. It's perhaps 10 feet wide and has three floors, crammed with all the best finds that passed through this retired antique dealer's hands, displayed in every corner, wall, shelf and table. It was incredibly pretty, but as someone who doesn't really know how to deal with knick knacks, made me feel like, well, a bull in a china shop, which is exactly what it was.

Great buddies Sarah and Kate at Kate's pretty table in the Beehive

An hour at the Tate Modern revived my love for Joan Mitchell's paintings

London sunny

In an earnest effort to absorb the local culture, Nat and I doubled down on pubs. I had walked by the Blue Anchor many times, but usually in the morning, later ending up at either The Dove or The George and Devonshire, which is a hop, skip and a jump away. But the Blue Anchor proved a new favorite, with a cozy interior, nice bartender and good mix of people. The pub itself has been alive longer than the US of A, but then so have quite a lot of things. The Duke of Wellington in Belgravia  provided a most welcome respite on a raw afternoon . We had the feeling of barging into someone’s very civilized living room. Carpeted, with a roaring fire, people were talking quietly or watching Fulham beat Chelsea muted on the telly. I’m not sure we shed our interloper status, but it was a nice stop. Continuing our all day walk, we stopped at The White Horse in Parsons Green, where the folks from the aforementioned game had begun to congregate, not causing any challenges to the bouncer stationed and alert. We finished the night with dinner and very good beer at The Old Ship, another tried and true, right on the Thames.

Last day in London had me walking around Richmond with a friend, feeling super-American as I silently gawped at many of the backdrops for Ted Lasso. That was after our previous walk around the gardens of Chiswick House, which had been the backdrop for many scenes in Bridgerton. 

Thames Richmond

Ham House in Petersham, near Richmond where we walked

Now, my aunt is always right about these things, so when she told us we were stupid to have booked flights out of Stansted, we didn't try to defend. I won't bore you with all the agonising details of a budget flight gone awry, costing more than a regular and taking three times as long, involving planes, trains, automobiles and buses, but let's just say that when the woman from what I now call Cryin'Air began to say "Next time....", I saved her breath by interrupting "There will be no next time." If you need advice about how to entertain yourself for 8 hours in an airport when there's nowhere to sit down, drop me a line. And yes, Heathrow next time, only Heathrow.

- - - - - - - -

First Monday in January after the holidays has a flavor of its own, often bitter. Back in Aix, it's just getting light at 8:30 am, the wind is banging the shutters against the exterior walls, it's supposed to rain for the first time, and a child is crying mercilessly outside. But.... it will be sunny tomorrow and there are new adventures ahead. Happy New Year to you.