After a fitful night in my teeny bed, I get ready for the day in my teeny shower in my teeny bathroom.
My destination is Portobello Road Market. I am glad I arrive early because by 11:00 AM it is so crowded you can barely squeeze through the throng of people. On Saturdays, Portobello Road is in full swing with more than 1,000 antique shops and stalls lining the street, which is closed to traffic for the day. In addition to the antique stalls, there is also a big farmers’ market, second-hand clothes, books, and bric-a-brac.
Portobello Road Market is the largest of its kind in the world and, of course, a bit of a tourist trap. But I love it because it is colorful, eclectic, and even a bit nostalgic in today’s world of mini malls and big box stores.
I meander the stalls looking at clocks, jewelry, scarves, silver, and kumquats. As the song says
Portobello road, Portobello road
Robert B. Sherman and Richard M. Sherman, song from Disney’s Bedknobs and Broomsticks
Street where the riches of ages are stowed.
Anything and everything a chap can unload
Is sold off the barrow in Portobello road.
You’ll find what you want in the Portobello road.
I am looking for royal commemoratives, but only one or two stalls have them in any quantity. I buy two; both for the investitures of princes of Wales: Charles in 1969 and Edward in 1911. Edward’s has a tiny chip, but I think it will add panache to my collection having been purchased in Portobello Road.
I bump into Jonathan Weiner with his two sons. They are leaving tomorrow for the US―it is the end of his fellowship―and a sober reminder that I have only a little more than a month to go.
Back at Notting Hill tube station as I am buying my tube ticket, I say something offhandedly to a couple in line behind me. Hearing my American accent, they ask where I am from. When I say Maine, he says one of his best friends from the army was from Maine―from Mechanic something or other. Before I can say, “Mechanic Falls! I know it, I grew up near there!” the crowd sweeps them away.
At Leicester Square, I get in the long snaking line for half-price theater tickets and, after about 35 minutes, am happy to come away with a matinee ticket to The Pajama Game for £19.50. I spy a little café for lunch called The Dome. Only after I am seated do I realize Brian and I ate brunch here on our theater trip a few years ago.
The play is set in the 1950s. They haven’t even tried to update it. But maybe that is supposed to be part of its charm. I had forgotten the plot line. It is corny, but the songs are fun. I don’t much like the guy who plays Heinzy, Brian’s part in his high school production. His American accent is fake and he overacts. I am in the front row, which is distracting. You can see make-up lines, wig tape, and microphones; which for some of the men are taped to their foreheads near their hairlines. But I enjoy the production and come away singing
There once was a man who loved a woman
She was the one he gave his kingdom for-or.
They say that nobody ever loved as much as he-ee
But me-ee, I love you more-or.
After several aborted attempts in September, on this trip, I finally make it to the world-famous Harrods. Worse than the mall on Christmas Eve, there are so many people swarming its seven stories, 330 departments, and 5 million square feet, I can hardly move through. Why did I want to come here?
Outside, I walk the entire perimeter of the full-city-block-sized store looking at their illuminated Christmas windows. Harrods is celebrating the millennial Christmas with a retrospective of clothing styles over 10 decades. Each window’s manikin represents a different decade of the century. They are stunning. The manikin for the millennium glitters in gold. I am not sure if the lamé frock and headdress are meant to depict what fashion models are wearing now or predict what they will wear in the decade to come.
Back in my tiny room, I eat bread, cheese, and grapes for supper that I bought in Harrod’s Food Hall.
Jody’s UK Memories 