Stairway to heaven

Other than the friends I left behind in the UK, there are not that many things that I really miss about my life in London. That does, however, not mean that there are not a few areas where I have always felt the Dutch could stand to learn a lesson or two from their overseas neighbours. Escalator etiquette is one of those things. Anyone who has tried public transport commuting in the Netherlands and who has had to dash for that connecting train will know what I mean. We Dutch just like to stand all over the place, dead set on thwarting all those who try to survive in the fast lane. The simple concept of "walk left, stand right" is lost on us. Until now...

Yesterday morning I arrived at the station of my native Amersfoort. To my surprise I found the escalators there had been decorated with bright green and red footprints, teaching us silly Dutch how to behave on an escalator! Apparently it is part of a 'pilot project' and Amersfoort has been lucky enough to get the premiere. Believe it or not but it even came with a crash course in elevator walking. It seems we are just THAT stupid. Well, I hope it works. What's next? Allow me to make a suggestion: could we please send the Amsterdam taxi drivers to learn from their London black cab colleagues?

Raise the red lantern

When 2 of my favourite cities meet, THIS is what you get?! O dear... so much for me ranting about how Amsterdam is more than just the red light district.

Art in the glow of Amsterdam red lights
Gallery hopes 'canal of the whores' will connect with more traditional works

By: Charlotte Higgins
The Guardian, Wednesday September 17 2008

Never have its gracious enfilades and echoing halls witnessed anything like it: the National Gallery, repository of the nation's finest Old Masters, is to re-create a red-light district, complete with scantily clad prostitutes, sinister alleyways and shop windows filled with human wares. This walkthrough installation is Ed and Nancy Kienholz's work Hoerengracht - Dutch for "whores' canal" - which will take its place in the gallery next autumn.

The idea is to make connections with the Dutch 17th-century paintings in the gallery's collection, which, despite their appearance of gentility, are set in the brothels for which Amsterdam is famous. Paintings such as Jan Steen's Interior of an Inn, Schalcken's A Man Offering Gold and Coins to a Girl and De Hooch's Musical Party in a Courtyard will be hung near the entrance to the installation, which the Kienholzes created in the 1980s.

The New York Times has described the effect of Hoerengracht thus: "In excruciating detail, a woman washes herself at a grungy sink; another, more scantily clad, sits in a chair scanning a magazine amid the kitschy trappings of her cubicle ... Still another professional, in leopardskin pants, high boots and a sequiny top, stands poised in a doorway behind an iron grille, mouth open in a sexy pout, fingers holding a cigarette."

Asked whether the installation would carry a warning for families, Colin Wiggins, the National Gallery's head of education, said: "In the paintings of De Hooch there are dodgy things going on, but we don't put warnings outside our Dutch 17th-century rooms. "Our aim is to stop people in their tracks and make them think, 'Crikey, this is unprecedented for the National Gallery.' Would you warn your child against it? Well, it depends who you are. Sarah Palin would probably warn her children. But we have Soho just down the road where you can see young ladies in leopardskin miniskirts."

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(Picture: 'Hoerengracht' (detail of street corner with photo montage and mannequin), 1984-88 by Ed and Nancy Kienholz)

Going Dutch

It's not been quite a week yet but steadily I am beginning to get settled back in into my Amsterdam life. So many things are still the same that at times it is as if I have never left. The shops I knew are all still there, I even recognise plenty of faces in the neighbourhood and much of Amsterdam is still in its by now familiar construction chaos. Still, there are a few things in my own habits and behaviour that are subtle reminders that I have been away for quite a while. I need to learn to look the other way again when crossing a street. I need to remember again to say my own name first when answering the phone. I need to go back again to using the magnetic strip on my bank card rather than the chip. I need to use a strippenkaart again, not an Oyster card. I need to start yelling at cyclists who nearly run me down again, instead of saying "Pardon me". I need to become that cyclist again, not the silly pedestrian. In short, I have to work on my 'inburgering'.

There is one change in the neighbourhood, however, that suddenly made me feel that perhaps I have taken a piece of the UK with me to Amsterdam. The squatted house around the corner suggests Banksy has gone Amsterdam too:

It's the final countdown

Barely back from Tanzania I am preparing once again to pack my bags. Or rather, to pack my moving boxes. In 3 days from now I will be back in the country where the trains are yellow, the cows black and white and the royals Orange.

Since my arrival here almost two years ago, the original collection of my local belongings has expanded from a single suitcase to a room full. Getting everything to the other side of the Channel proved either a logistical or financial nightmare or both. Carrying things with me by plane was a definite no-no. Too much stuff, not enough luggage allowance. Going through a shipping company was no option either. Too expensive. Royal Mail might be cheaper but errr... let's say I value my belongings too much and I'd like to see them again. This decade preferably. Fortunately there is always super-mom to the rescue! She has graciously offered to drive all the way here to London to collect me and my belongings. Of course I suspect she just wants to make sure I really do come back so she'll do whatever it takes but still...

I am quite looking forward to being back. It will be wonderful to be closer again to some people I have seen too little of these last 23 months. But I will miss London too. Moving closer to some friends means moving away further from others. Not that I will stay away from London very long anyway though. Less than a fortnight after arriving in Amsterdam I am due back in London for a few days for some meetings. I dread to think of my carbon footprint these days. At least in Amsterdam I will be greenly pedal-powered again. Only, the bike I left behind has since collapsed and died. I don't suppose any of you has a bike for sale?

Tulipgirl leaves London

A friend of mine runs the following quote on his blog:

You find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford. (Samuel Johnson)

I am by no means tired of life but I was beginning to get a bit tired of London. Maybe there is in London all that life can afford but the quote neglects to point out that you also need some serious money to afford it all. The cost of living here is just too high to do it for long.

I had been considering my options for leaving London for a while now, but suddenly things have picked up lightning speed. A few weeks back my boss made a startling announcement. He has accepted a major job at a very interesting organisation. That is of course great news for him. But it is also good news for me... it looks like I will be following him to the land of chocolate and mountains in a few months time, doing just the sort of work I have been working towards all these months! There are still a million blanks to fill in about the what, where, when and how much but it is a very exciting opportunity for me that I take with both hands.

For those of you back in the Netherlands who miss me a bit there is more good news. My boss' departure from London means that, from September onwards, there will be no real need for me to stay here either until the new job takes shape. With an internet connection and cheap flights I can be based basically anywhere and that includes Amsterdam. Yes people, I will be coming home soon! It may not be for very long since already I know I will be moving abroad again but pretty soon I will be setting up camp in my own apartment. See you there?

Tulip fever

I really, really meant it last year when I said "Next year I will definitely try to be there again" but things don't always work out the way you want them to. Fenced in by non-negotiable deadlines, I will once again spend Queen's Day in laborious London instead of anarchic Amsterdam. So, like last year, yesterday I once more dug that orange top out from under a pile of more frequently worn clothes to join the London version of Queen's day. We in London have to celebrate it a few days early though, as unfortunately over here we can't get the day off for it.

At least it looks like this year London had one up on Amsterdam. The weather yesterday here was gorgeous. It was the first real Spring day we've had in months, blessed with sunshine and warm temperatures. The forecast suggests that you guys back in the Motherland may not be so lucky this year. So basking in the sun we sat, surrounded by the other orange people, listening to Andre Hazes' songs and eating a patatje met. For one day a year I am not ashamed to set free my inner Dutch girl. Something true for many of us Cheese Heads in London apparently as once again I ran into some familiar faces! London can sometimes suddenly be very small.


The walk afterwards -by sheer coincidence- let us straight into a magnificent tulip garden. It wasn't part of the celebrations and I didn't even know it was there but it certainly was an appropriate find. The fitting ending to such a delightfully Dutch day of course was dinner at the local Pancake house with a starter of bitterballen. Stuffed beyond belief on this healthy diet of saturated fats, I look back on a great day but not without some secret hope that maybe next year...

Queen's Day in London 2008

Run like the wind

My new flat is practically on the doorstep of Battersea Park. As one of the biggest (and most beautiful) parks in London this is prime running territory. For weeks now the park has seen ever swelling numbers of sweaty sports maniacs congregating for their obligatory laps. Some suffer alone, others travel in packs. At first I thought it was just the spring weather that had urged these people to dust off their running shoes. It is more than that though. This weekend running is London's number 1 religion as thousands of fanatics take over the streets for the London marathon.

I must admit, I don't really get marathons. A number of my friends have done them or intend to do them but, although I admire their tenacity, I do secretly think they are a bit loopy. Let's not forget: the man accredited for first accomplishing this feat did not live to collect any medal. It is unnatural, unhealthy. Why anybody would deliberately put their body through this pain is beyond me. Then again, I am a real couch potato these days so who am I to judge?

There are 6 men in London right now who seem not the least bit impressed by those 42.195 kilometres. After all, there are no lions. Did I just say "no lions"? Indeed. Amongst the participants will be 6 Maasai warriors who intend to run and dance their way to Buckingham Palace wearing full warrior gear and traditional footwear. Used to running and hunting for days on end a little marathon poses no challenge to them. They are doing this to raise money for their village and to bring fresh water to their families. Of course I do still think they are loopy but their cause is a worthy one. I wish them happy hunting.

Easter snooze

Sorry I dropped off the radar (read: RSS feed) there for a bit but I do have a really good excuse. That is, I have been not busy enough. Uh? Not busy enough? Indeed. I have been too lazy rather than too busy.

To my pleasant surprise my employer has been generous enough to add on two more days to what was already a blissfully long Easter weekend. I haven't set foot in the office since last Wednesday and don't have to go back until tomorrow. Don't get me wrong -I like my job- but after weeks of 10 hour days and deadlines that are somehow always yesterday it is really nice to have a break.

My initial thoughts were that I should make the most of this time by getting out of London. Prohibitive flight prices quickly put an end to that notion. Then I figured I should explore London further; walk around, maybe see a museum or two, stimulate my cultural side. The miserable weather has been my perfect excuse not to do any of that. Instead I have spent many happy hours on my bed, watching lowbrow movies such as Shrek 3 and Harry Potter V, sipping tea and eating chocolate. Comfortable in my cocoon while outside the watery snow flakes dance.

Tomorrow I'll return to my deadlines and long days but today I celebrate the third day of Easter. Now where is my egg?

Saudade

Fortunately London is a place where one doesn't have to stay homeless for long. I have found myself a new apartment and will be moving in next weekend. The new flat is in the same neighbourhood I am living in now so I can stay set in many of my ways. I will miss this place and am somewhat worried about how I am going to fit all my belongings in a room that is clearly a lot smaller but I genuinely like the looks of my new accommodation.

Last week has awoken a feeling in me that had stayed dormant thus far. The feeling is simultaneously fed by my need to move out and the fact that I have just agreed to rent out my Amsterdam apartment for the next 6 months again. Breaking through my emotional surface is a nagging homesickness. Up until now I had been too absorbed by my new life in London to spend much time thinking about the one I left behind. London is a greedy lover, jealously demanding all your time and energy. The city had blinded me to my old love.

Amsterdam is the only city that really makes my heart beat faster. Cycling along the canals on a sunny afternoon makes it skip a beat. I miss the houseboats, miss shopping on the Albert Cuyp and, most of all, miss the feeling of being at home. In London I still feel on the outside. I am merely passing through. The problem is that I will be passing through for at least another 6 months and with my current line of work, it is very possible my next destination will not be Amsterdam. This was my choice and it is a choice that I do not regret. This is what I want to do with my life. But on days like today, my heart sings heavy with saudade.

Workaholic

My first flatmate in London was a real workaholic. We didn't share a house for very long but in those few weeks I lived there I hardly ever saw him. He would come home from the office really late and lived on take-out meals and cigarettes. It didn't seem a very healthy way to live. It is the way a lot of people in London live though. This city is known for the long hours people work. Before I came here, I was never even aware of the existence of the European Working Time Directive, which forbids employers from making their employees work more than 48 hours a week. That is of course, unless you sign an 'opt-out', something which many large companies here enforce.

I work at the university and academia is not generally a place where people are being worked to death. It is not that PhD students don't work hard. Often times they work really hard but it mostly is on a semi-voluntary basis, as in: sooner or later that thesis needs to be finished. I have worked the occasional weekend or evening in those days as well, but it certainly was not the rule. Our group now though is a bit of a chimera of academia and business. The work we do is definitely research based but many of our projects are commissioned and that means we have to work to the client's deadlines. This time of year is the worst. Everybody is trying to get things finished 'before the holidays'. I had two projects with major deadlines on it this week. One of them in particular has kept me working weekends and evenings. I haven't slept properly in days. My eyes are bloodshot and my muscles tight like the strings on a violin.

But the work is done! I managed to deliver to my deadlines, in part because London is 5 hours ahead of Washington where our client is based. I am pleased to have managed but am exhausted to my very core. I have now snuggled up on the sofa under the duvet, for the first time in days doing something other than work on my laptop. As soon as I type the last sentence I will go brush my teeth and surrender to Morpheus' sweet embrace.

Zzzzzz.....

The London overdose

I lived in Amsterdam for a good eight years. In all that time I have not been to the Anne Frank House once, nor to the Rijksmuseum, the Allard Pierson museum, the Tropenmuseum or even the Sex museum. I have not visited Carré, de Kleine Komedie or the Stadsschouwburg.

Twelve months have I been in London now. In that whole year I had not been to the British Museum, the Science Museum, the Victoria&Albert Museum or the National Portrait Gallery. I haven't seen a West End show nor have I gone up in the London Eye. I have barely glimpsed the Tower or Big Ben. You just don't get to do a lot of these things when you live somewhere. Part of 'going native' means snubbing the clichés, even if that means missing out on some interesting experiences.

By far the best motivation to get off our sorry native butts is to have guests over. This week my mum came to visit me. In five days time we have shuffled past the Chinese Terracotta Warriors and the Egyptian mummies at the British Museum. We have been baffled by the suspended tube lights and even black canvasses that pass for art at the Tate Modern. We have sipped champagne cocktails at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. We have looked at everything from 16th century locks and keys to Vivian Westwood dresses at the V&A.

In a city like London you are never done. There is always more to see, more to do, more to experience. At least this week I have been giving it my best. I need some time to recover from this cultural overdose. That is, until the next guests come knocking at the door...

Blow the bank

I hate banks. No, this is not a literary hyperbole. I really do hate banks. They are the most customer unfriendly type of business I have ever come across. They lure you in with nice offers and wide smiles but as soon as they have your business the masks come off and the smiles are replaced by passive 'sorry-but-I-can't-help-you' faces at best and evil smirks at worst.

I have easily spent a year of my life arguing with my Dutch bank. I have been given the run-around so many times I must have talked to every single employee. The only reason I still bank there is the introduction of online banking. Taking out the people factor has in this case been a blessing. No more arbitrary decisions where things can be done one day but not the next. I control my money when I want, how I want.

London may be the financial capital of Europe but, if anything, my banking experience here is even worse. The whole system is archaic. Since I did not have a job this year I have had to settle for opening a student account. As a student you are the lowest of the lowliest. You're not likely to have any money to spend and for that reason banks despise you. Credit? Ha, you must be joking. Service? Why on Earth? Online banking? Funny. Seriously, I can not do anything with my account without physically going to my bank branch; not even change my address. Everything takes forms, people and mostly...time.

All I wanted to do today was pay my rent and deposit. The money had to go from my UK account to another UK account with a different bank. Obviously I had to go to the bank. My annoyance at this was only surpassed by stunned disbelief when I found out they wanted to charge me 23 pounds for this simple transaction! The only way to do this free of charge was to withdraw the money from my account and walk 5 minutes to a branch of this other bank and deposit it again. They've gone mad. From now on I just might have to start keeping my money in a shoebox under the bed again.

Danse macabre

My university is located on exhibition road, so named because it houses three of the main London musea. One of these is the Natural History Museum. Normally this magnificent building radiates a stately tranquility, but not this week... something eerie is going on there.

The liveless skeletons that are the museum's regular tenants have had to relinquish the limelight to other, slightly more lively, skeletons. Outside these grimfaced carcasses rattle their bones dressed in the pelts and feathers of the dead ones inside. Up and down they walk, looking without seeing.

This week the NHM has been hosting London Fashion Week. All over the papers are images of walking sticks disguised as humans wearing dresses no real person can ever fit. Unlike their Italian counterparts the organisers of LFW have refused to ban the so-called 'size 0' models. Instead, they have introduced compulsory health checks for models. Although I am by no means trying to ridicule the seriousness of eating disorders, I can't help but wonder who we are really trying to protect here... In a country where underweight people aren't exactly the biggest problem, the whole debate seems a bit skewed. Maybe the rationale is that, instead of getting the fatties to slim down, it's easier to pick on the skinny girls so they won't make us feel so bad about ourselves?

The unbearable lightness of being

Soon I will be changing my address. For most people that is a big deal. The hungry databases of departments, institutions, companies, governmental bodies, and charities all demand to be fed the information of your new whereabouts. And even after you have surrendered that information to everything and everyone, the lesser remnants of your mail are still likely to haunt the new residents for many years after your departure. Not for me, not this time.

I lead a shadow life in London. Almost nobody knows I am here. As far as the city of Amsterdam is concerned, Oost is where they still believe I lay my hat. The English government and the city of London are blissfully unaware I walk amongst them. The only ones who know where to find me are the bank and the university. Here I have no subscriptions, no bills, no taxes, no ties. I can disappear quietly into the night.

At the moment a significant part of my life is taking place on this almost etherical level. My new tenancy agreement is written in the pale-hued ink of good faith, at least until the estate agent becomes aware of the changes in the household. My job offer is a mere spoken promise, figuring no figures, dating no dates. All I can do is have faith as I walk into my new life across this bridge built from promises and cemented by trust.

Innuendo

Imperial College has seen its share of celebrities pass through the doors, from scientific powerhouses to royalty. Not so long ago, for instance, IC celebrated the centenary and new-found independence from the University of London by inviting HMQ over. A few weeks ago I walked into the building only to run into a photo shoot for another sort of Royal. Queen guitarist Brian May was having his picture taken.

I stuck around for a few minutes trying to figure out what was going on. The reason for the shoot was unclear. There was another guy in the picture as well and they seemed to be passing what looked like a thesis between them. I jumped to conclusions. Either the other guy had written some thesis on Queen or worse: May was being awarded some nonsensical honorary doctorate. The impudence! The arrogant scientist in me fumed with indignant outrage. Blood, sweat and tears had I poured into my thesis and here they were bestowing this precious title on some... some rock star?! How dare they! Then last week my eye fell on a news headline:

"Brian May completes doctoral thesis in astrophysics: Radial Velocities in the Zodiacal Dust Cloud."

Right... I'll very humbly be shutting up now.

Carnaval des animaux

Saturday afternoon I am strolling through Hyde Park when from a distance a low sound starts to pound on my eardrums. Intrigued I follow it to its origin. As I come closer the sound becomes richer and swells in intensity. At the source I find hundreds of steel drum players. About a dozen steel bands are battling it out in the Park as a prelude to London's biggest annual street festival: The Notting Hill Carnival.

Notting Hill Carnival is held on the August Bank Holiday weekend with the climax on Monday. It's something you should at the very least see once when you live in London. The feeling I got there was oddly enough very much that of a Queen's day celebration though with a touch of Gay Parade. It's essentially a Caribbean Carnival so the costumes are colourful and exotic. Somewhat less so are its participants. In the true spirit of the multicultural society a very substantial part of the dancers is white to the point of being transparent. It's a weird sight: the sparrow dressed up like a peacock.



The more exotic birds are for the most part no long-legged flamingos either. This may be Notting Hill but the ladies sure do not look like Julia Roberts. Down here, 'big is beautiful' appears to be the credo as the excess flesh is shaking and gyrating to the music.



The weather was sunny and dry and yet it somehow felt too quiet on the streets. You could still walk around normally and the festival seemed confined to a fairly small area. The organisation proudly says the festival is the second biggest street party in the world, first being the Rio carnival, but I wonder if they have ever been to Amsterdam on Queen's Day.

More pics

Too-early bird - The reprise

I may not believe in Heaven or Hell but I have just found Paradise...and I'm moving there!

Last week I looked at a really nice apartment close to where I live now. It was love at first sight. The apartment is on the waterfront, as close to living in Chelsea as one can get without having to pay Chelsea prices. It has a cosy bedroom, a gigantic living room, a really nice kitchen and a clean bathroom. There is a communal garden and a balcony with view over the river. In short, I loved it. Unfortunately the current tenant also had a friend who was interested and naturally friendship obliges. I was very disappointed to hear the friend had decided to take it and consequently I could not.

This morning I got a phone call. The friend has had to decline after all and the room is mine if I want it! I am deliriously happy. It really is excellent value for money. Of course it can never compete with my flat back home which is my true home and has all my beloved belongings but it is as good an alternative as I could dare hope for. I can't wait to move.

Too-early bird

The early bird catches the worm, or so at least the saying goes. Lately though I have been finding this misses a crucial point. It is not about being early. It is being timely that counts.

I have given notice to my landlords a couple of weeks ago already since my contract with them requires I give them about two months notice. I did not think that was terribly unreasonable. I have a similar arrangement with the tenant renting my apartment back in Amsterdam. Leaving sufficient notice allows the other party to find a new tenant. But here in London there is something strange going on.

Ever since I gave my notice I have been scanning the flatshare websites for a new place to call home. There are, however, surprisingly few ads that are worth responding to. That is not because the flats on offer themselves are not interesting. It is because they are all available NOW. Everything is done on such short notice. You essentially don't start looking for a place until after your moving boxes are already packed. Another example of that famous high-paced life in the city I suppose.

I have a few more weeks left on my contract so there is no point in taking a new place before that. Paying double rent is not something my budget allows for. Nonetheless, I have looked at a couple of flats in the past two weeks: exceptions to the rule. They included some lovely places that I would have been very happy to live in. Unfortunately there were more birds pecking for the same worms and I bit nothing but the dust. Apparently I will need to wait patiently for the rest of the worms to come out.

Bright lights, big city

The engines roar and once the plane is in the air the view from the window bathes in green. Even here, over the coast and close to the city, Sweden reveals itself as a green and spacious country. Underneath the colours glow intensely as the sun slowly sets over Scandinavia.

I have spent the weekend in Sweden to join in the wedding celebrations of one of my eldest friends. The man of her dreams is a Swede and several years ago she followed him there. As the scene for their happy day they had chosen an island about an hour away from their home town Göteborg. This island epitomizes Sweden: green, quiet, picturesque. It is great to get away from the city to a place like this every once in a while. The air you breath is salty and fresh and nobody is in a hurry. Here stress falls away like water off a duck's back.


But imagine you live there every day... I could not do it. I am too much of a city girl at heart. In the city, the air might be thick and greasy and everybody is always rushing to get somewhere where they are not, but there is something magnetic about life in the city. Cities are about possibilities, about choices. I have not been to a theatre in months, true, nor have I been to a concert since I moved to London. But I have the possibility to go whenever I feel like it, as well as the choice not to if I don't. All options are open. The decision is entirely my own.

As the plane approaches London the city is hidden from view by a thick cotton-candy layer of clouds. You can tell the days have started to shorten again as it is only nine o'clock but already dark. Then suddenly the plane dips below the clouds, revealing a breathtaking sight. The city stretches as far as the eye can see and is ablaze with thousands of lights. My pulse picks up speed, resynchronizing itself to the familiar rhythm of the city. Yes, I am a city girl.

Kew Gardens

It is Saturday and although I am not exactly living a normal 5-day working week these days I feel like doing something special with the day. I could scavenge the sales on High Street Kensington before they finish but I could also go for a more memorable option. The weather is dry for now and who knows how long that will last. Consumerism can wait.

My grandfather lived in London once, a lifetime ago. For the last year, every time I have seen him he has asked me if I have been to Kew Gardens yet. Every time I have had to disappoint him. He is not well and I do want to be able to tell him I have been and so I find myself on a train to Richmond. From here I take the route suggested by my thus far unused guide book. It quickly leads me away from the busy high street and past the local common, where people are having a picknick and playing cricket. I don't know the first thing about cricket but even I can see this lot isn't any good. While passing them, I keep the guide book half-hidden under the jacket I hold casually slung over my arm. Why is it that we are so embarrassed to be identified as tourists? I memorise the next few lines of the route, then quickly stow the book away in my bag.

My route leads past beautiful Tudor houses, down to the river. From here I don't need directions anymore; I simply follow the old tow path. The Dutch girl in me feels right at home here amidst the houseboats on the river and the cyclists on the path. It is scenic and quiet by the Thames, which here seems a meek shadow of the swift flowing river that runs by my house, with only the oars of rowers splashing on the water. The path leads all the way up to Kew Gardens. The entrance fee is steep, even with my student discount, but the grounds are vast. I start with the greenhouses and look at towering palms, exotic flowers and suggestively phallic cacti. I smell the fragrant lavender and the roses. In the gardens I find ancient trees bent under the weight of their own history. Many will have already been here when my grandfather visited.

The grounds of Kew Gardens are speckled with countless benches, dedicated in loving memory to husbands & wives, fathers & mothers, sons & daughters now gone. Wooden tombstones without graves. Most benches are empty -it is not busy here today- except for the ones by the waterfront. I sit down on one dedicated to a man who died the same year my father did. The sun is shining now and is reflecting off the water. I close my eyes and sit in the sun for a while. Every other minute the serene silence is shattered by airplanes moaning overhead. Heathrow airport is not far. Eventually I get up and walk back through the bamboo gardens. I have a strong feeling I will be back here. On my way out I stop by the giftshop to buy a postcard for my grandfather.

Richmond & Kew Gardens - London