Into the Next Millennium

A proper good morning to you.
Weather forecasts in Britain change every fifteen minutes, and with reason, so the public is left in great uncertainty as to whether it will rain or not. The safest thing—and what I and most Londoners so—is carry an umbrella if there is any chance at all of precipitation.
So I came prepared. And I am still waiting and at this point hoping as I am inside—for the rain.
I get restless in the mornings even though things don’t open until ten so my umbrella and I started out. I crossed the street and ducked into a lane that led to Lincoln’s Inn’s Fields a park about three minutes walk from my place. I walked through it to Lincoln’s Inn. This is one of the “inns of court.” I can’t go into the British legal system here. If you have questions you can post a comment or email me.
Suffice it to say there aren’t actual law schools. A barrister or solicitor joins one of the inns and hangs around learning the trade. These institutions date from the late Middle Ages and some of the buildings and grounds are very old and extraordinarily beautiful. I enjoyed my wander around them more than I thought I would.
I emerged onto the Strand, not quite knowing how I got there. By this time (ahem) my morning tea had caught up with me, so I walked west toward Trafalgar, but I stopped in Somerset House where I found facilities I didn’t have to pay for and also saw some of the inside of other parts of the building including the Nelson Stairs at the Admiralty.
Then back down the Strand, which became Fleet Street.
Much window licking opportunity exists here including the Temple of Tea—yes the Original Twinings Shop. It’s been closed every time I’ve been by previously, but it was open today. Of course I went in to sniff the offerings, and of course I’ll be back. I didn’t buy anything because I didn’t want to carry it.
So let’s proceed east past the Royal Courts of Justice and toward St. Paul’s and the City of London. Most of what we call “London” is actually Westminster. I turned down some street toward the river. I was following signs and ended up on Queen Victoria Street and then I turned left onto a sort of plaza just below St. Paul’s.
Before me lay the Millennium Bridge!
This is a foot bridge over the Thames built to honor—well, you guessed it. It leads from St. Paul’s over to the Tate Modern.
Look, if you are in London come here. Walk across this bridge—even if you are going to walk right back again. The view of St. Paul’s from the midst of the crossing is unsurpassed and you can see down the Thames past the Tower Bridge to Docklands.
If you are going elsewhere the South Bank is well sign posted. I will be returning, but today my destination was the Tate Modern, opened in 2000 in time to greet the new millennium.
This museum is a converted power station and the interior still shows some of the industrial guts. In fact the space is very well designed to display art. It’s spacious and easy to navigate. It holds a brilliant collection of non British Art from 1900 on.
Let’s be honest—most Modern Art leaves most people cold, and I’m not going to pretend I like it all. Some of it I find very compelling. Some of the Surrealists like de Chirico and Miro fascinate me. I love the Fauves, especially Matisse and Andre Derain.

There’s an (inferior) cast of Boccioni’s Unique Forms of Continuity in Space.
My practice is to stand in a room and survey. If something grabs me I go look at that. Some of the offerings I ignore, but I have to say that the displays and information panels here are first rate.
Warning. This paragraph contains a distasteful story, and you may want to skip to the cheese. Italian artist Pietro Manzoni regarded the Tate curators as a bunch of pretentious gits. He donated a work that consisted of canisters into which he had defecated. These cans were proudly exhibited at the Tate Modern with much fanfare about daring and expanding the definition of art, etc. Human waste being what it is, gases were produced. Now unbeknownst to the curators, Manzoni had designed his canisters to explode when the internal pressure got too great spewing the contents across the floor. Apparently there’s a You Tube Video of the bewildered yet credulous curators trying to explain the “spontaneity” and the “patterns created” of the results. Reportedly Manzoni laughed himself sick.
So did that work up an appetite? My walk sure did, because I walked to the Tate Modern and walked home, too, via Covent Garden and the Neal’s Yard Dairy.
It’s Bastille Day and I like to celebrate with fois gras and cheese. I got some pate de fois gras de canard at Sainsbury and stopped for some cheese on my way home. No suitably French fromage was on order (yes, I’m a Norman. I’m picky. Sue me) so I stuck with British.
I am enjoying a rich, strong aromatic goat cheese. It’s not at all goaty. It is rather salty, however. Think of cream cheese and then add Camembert. The other cheese is from Gurnsey Cows, which as the young lady told me, explains its deep yellow color and buttery flavor and texture. So desolee, France. I’m not missing you aujour d’hui.
Pil, didn’t you mention pate?
  Oh yes. Fluffy, but pronounced flavor. Quite good actually although in France pate is considered weenie food, as far as fois gras goes and fit only for foreigners. But I’m not in France am I? I can enjoy it on cracker. Oh whoops! Le biscuit! Another French non non. Vive le Republic anyway.
Cherrio!