Union Station

The tour of my list of unfortunate architectural contributions to our city continues with this uninspiring box that sits above the concourse of Union Station in the West Loop. The tower in the photograph on the right is Gateway Center III and the squat black building on the left is the MidAmerica Commodity Exchange. Both are the work of the inescapable firm of Skidmore Owings and Merrill.

In a previous post I listed two criteria for truly awful buildings. This one meets both. Any building fronting the river sits on a prominent location and as such the architects have a responsibility to respond in kind with a building of at least some distinction. Can't see much in the cracker box tower. The Exchange Building at least has a trace of relevance, the estimable AIA Guide to Chicago describes it as "a supine version of the John Hancock Center."

And any building that replaces a beloved building faces the inevitable comparison to its predecessor that is more often then not, negative, often to the extreme.

I have a particular ax to grind with this one as I had a history with the original concourse building of the Union Station complex. When I was a small child, my grandparents would often take me Downtown on Sunday afternoons. One of our favorite haunts was Union Station which at the time consisted of two buildings. The headhouse still exists west of Canal Street. You can just barely see it in this photograph peeking over the addition on the left. The great waiting room was there as it still is, without a doubt one of the finest extant interiors in Chicago. East of Canal in a separate building was the concourse building.

As great as the waiting room is, the interior of the concourse was arguably better. This was the first experience of Chicago that travelers from all over the country had as they disembarked from trains that had names like the Hiawatha, the Broadway Limited and the California Zephyr. And what an experience it was. The roof as you can see from this postcard rendering, was held up by arched trusses that were supported by iron posts, inspired by the concourse of the late, great Pennsylvania Station in New York. Chandeliers suspended in mid air illuminated the great space when golden beams of sunlight didn't stream through the windows. When you got off your train and walked into that space, you knew you had arrived at someplace special.

This wasn't the only train station in Chicago by a long shot, but it was the grandest. It was the place where I fell in love with trains. While Union Staton was more often than not our Sunday destination, every once in a while we'd actually hop on a train, usually one of the commuter lines, the Burlington to Aurora, or the Milwaukee Road to Elgin. Then there was our annual summer trip to Milwaukee aboard the Hiawatha with its beautiful skytop lounge car designed by Brooks Stevens. Here it is from the inside.

I remember coming back from those trips, getting off the train and the great concourse welcomed us back home like an old friend.

The end came around the time the railroads gave up on passenger service and the national passenger service Amtrak was born. Everything became stripped down and the grand concourse was deemed superfluous as there was no revenue generating possibility in it as was the case with the offices across the street in the headhouse.

I don't remember how I felt when I heard the news, as a child I was probably swayed by the propaganda of the time that you can't interfere with progress. There was an allure back then that I succumbed to of the new, the shiny, the modern, as opposed to the dingy, old buildings that symbolized the dark ages to many. I do remember my last few visits, disembarking from the Elgin train, seeing the place illuminated by the fading orange light at the end of the day and realizing that it soon would be no more. And I remember watching from the Adams Street bridge as the headache ball rammed into the clerestory window above the columns of the east side of the building as the grand old building stubbornly gave up her ghost.

The construction of the new building lasted a year or two, and during that time you'd get off the train and be guided through construction tunnels that led either to the street above or to the waiting room which back then looked a little threadbare . Eventually the new building opened and it didn't appear much different than when it was under construction. Instead of great vaulted ceilings that reached forty feet up or more, you had dropped ceilings, 10 feet high if you were lucky, covered with acoustic tiles. The new joint was designed to be functional and efficient, but was neither, and the once grand arrival into Chicago was replaced by a whimper, or more tragically a whatever.

The destruction of Union Station mirrors that of Penn Station in a few ways. The two buildings were state of the art train stations built toward the end of the golden age of rail travel. Both had similar architecture, Union Station being greatly influenced by the design of Penn's a decade earlier. And both were replaced by buildings that were so bad they had to be reworked several times during their existence. Penn Station's replacement itself has often been threatened with demolition. We're not so fortunate here.

The interior of the Union Station concourse was remodeled in the nineties. While it doesn't come anywhere close to the magnificence of what was lost forty years ago it is much more palatable today than it was when it first opened.

As for the exterior well...

Location, location , location

Great buildings are great buildings, period. Lousy buildings are like wrong notes in a symphony, it all depends on where they are.

Chicago has many great buildings that are great for many reasons. I wouldn't put together a list my ten favorite buildings because I like different buildings for different reasons. We have lots of bad ones too but most of them can easily be ignored because they are set amongst other bad buildings. It's all about location. The truly bad buildings are the ones that bring an otherwise wonderful neighborhood or street scene down a notch or two simply because of their presence.

I mentioned in my previous post the Perkins and Will building at 444 North Michigan. All in all it's a dull but innocuous Modernist building, not terribly offensive apart from the fact that it towers over the Wrigley Building, cutting off that great building's silhouette from the sky, sucking the life out of a once breathtaking view up Michigan Avenue. It's the architectural equivalent of a squeaking clarinet in the middle of the slow movement of a Mozart concerto.

An other criterion for the road to architectural perdition in my book is based upon what the bad building replaced. An ironic tradition in Chicago is that the better the building torn down, the crappier the replacement. More than one unquestionable masterpiece of Chicago architecture was replaced by a parking lot. Some replacement buildings were so insignificant, they disappeared without anyone taking notice. Others live on in infamy, constant reminders of the failures of our stewardship of architectural heritage.

Making a list of ten or so examples of architectural malaise based upon these criteria will be easy, something I plan to do over the next couple of weeks in this space. By contrast I'll also look at some of the great buildings of this city that have taken full advantage of their prominent locations.

The view up the street

We live on Ridge Boulevard in Rogers Park three blocks short of Evanston. If you drive south on our street in the direction of the Loop, the prominent building of the city skyline is Trump Tower, the new 92 story Skidmore Owings and Merrill giant, now the second tallest building in Chicago. From our neck of the woods, it appears that Ridge leads directly up to the building some 11 miles away. (It does not as the street merges into Hollywood which in turn feeds into Lake Shore Drive).

The other evening as the kids and I were on a little adventure driving into the city, the late day sun filtering through a thin cloud cover bathed Trump Tower in glorious yellow-orange light. The tower's glass surface reflected the light back at us making it shine gloriously off in the distance. The kind of light that time of day makes everything beautiful but this was particularly magical. Picture the Yellow Brick Road leading to the magical city of Oz, minus the Munchkins of course and you get some idea.

Cities with grid shaped plans typically afford few opportunities for buildings to be focal points at the end of streets, as most streets just lead off into infinity, or so it seems. Fortunately the Chicago grid plan is occasionally broken up by diagonal streets, like Ridge that once were trails before the street plan was conceived. The grid is also broken up on occasion when a street will jog one way or other, or will dead end to create the opportunity for a building to be the focal point of a street vista. Two of the most famous examples in Chicago are pictured here. The Wrigley Building on the left dominates the view of Michigan Avenue south of the river, and the Board of Trade building pictured below, terminates the canyon of office buildings on La Salle Street north of Jackson.




As you can see, the view of the Wrigley Building has been greatly compromised by the construction of the massive, box like office building just to the north at 444 N. Michigan. This brings to mind one of the most egregious destructions of a street view anywhere, the building of the Pan Am (now Met Life) Building in New York which forever changed the magnificent Park Avenue vista featuring the glorious New York Central (now the Helmsley) Building and Grand Central Terminal. By contrast, in the case of the Michigan Avenue view, the later construction of the 900 N. Michigan, and the Park Plaza Buildings nearly one mile to the north, with their elaborate rooflines peeking over 444 N. Michigan, celebrate the exuberance of the Wrigley Building, if not entirely liberating it from the banality of a vastly inferior building.

Fortunately the Board of Trade Building has not suffered a similar fate. It's hard to imagine a project that would dare to interfere with this classic view of Chicago, although one never knows.

The aforementioned Trump Tower is now the focal point of Wabash Avenue, both to the south and the north, as the street jogs west as it crosses the river, then back east on the other side of the Tower. Its construction added a new dimension to this view up South Wabash Avenue which has remained relatively unchanged since this poster was created for the Chicago Elevated Lines* in the 1920s.

There are many examples of buildings in prominent locations commanding a street view, The Art Institute, where Adams Street dead ends into Michigan Avenue, The Field Museum, which dominates the downtown stretch of southbound Lake Shore Drive , and of course Chicago's most iconic building, the Water Tower, where Michigan Avenue jogs east at Chicago Avenue. These three are all examples of streets built to accommodate buildings, not the other way around.

Then of course there is the entire wall of buildings on Michigan Avenue between Randolph and Roosevelt Road which front Grant and Millennium Parks, the most prominent location in Chicago.

Architects have used prominent locations in town to great advantage creating some of the magnificent cityscapes that define this city.

Perkins and Will, the architects of 444 N. Michigan, dropped the ball on that one. More on the highs and lows of exploiting location to come.

Another opening day

I failed to mark the first anniversary of this blog last February but today provides me the opportunity to continue a yearly tradition of sorts, one I began exactly 364 days ago marking opening day for Chicago's baseball teams.

It is a special day especially for baseball fans in this town as it is the one day every year when in the morning at least, the Cubs and the White Sox are assured to be in first place. Hope indeed springs eternal as both teams are good enough this year to have a chance at least to make the playoffs in October, and perhaps beyond.

It is that hope that makes this day so special in a city whose professional sports teams, especially the ones that play baseball, have very little to show for their combined 256 years of existence.

That point was driven home as we watched two TV shows that aired consecutively last night, "What it Means to Be a White Sox" and "What it means to be a Cub". Both shows brought back fond memories for longtime Chicagoans such as myself, featuring memorable, if not great players from mostly second place teams.

The exceptional Chicago team of course is the 2005 White Sox who not only made it to the World Series but won it in impressive fashion by sweeping the Houston Astros in four games. Unfortunately it was the only World Series win of a Chicago team in the 51 years I've been on this planet, and only the second appearance in a World Series of a Chicago team in that time. It was also the only Chicago baseball championship in my mother's life although she lived through six Chicago World Series. I doubt if she remembers most of them however as three of them occurred before she was seven years old.

Making a point of the futility of being a Cub fan, long time radio broadcaster Pat Hughes speculated what it might be like someday to be the first Cub announcer to ever say over the air; "The Cubs have won the World Series". The last time the North Siders won the Fall Classic was in 1908, long before baseball games were broadcast on the radio.

But today is not a day to be negative, it's one hour or so before Mark Buehrle's first pitch on the South Side, and about three until Atlanta where the Cubs will open against the Braves, and all is definitely well in Chicago.

As I did last year, I am providing links to two of my favorite pieces of writing on the greatest game ever invented, two pieces that bespeak of the bittersweet essence of the game that perhaps today only a true Chicago Cub fan can understand fully. They are the late A. Bartlett Giamatti's lovely "The Green Fields of the Mind", and Ernest Thayer's famous poem "Casey at the Bat".

Here's to opening day and the two happiest words in the English language:

Play ball!

June, 19, 2009, the day my boy fell in love with baseball.

Post script: Mark Buehrle pitched seven brilliant shut out innings and added an incredible play of his own in the field to lead the White Sox to a 6-0 win over the Cleveland Indians.

Meanwhile the Cubs lost 16-5 against the Atlanta Braves marking their worst opening day performance since 1884.

But hey, it's a long season.

Urban renaissance

In of all places, Charlotte, NC.

The rebirth of the city hits the mainstream media. It's about time.

The morning symphony

Finishing up the taxes is always an anxious time of the year and as the deadline approaches, the mere thought is enough to induce sleepless nights, as was the case last night and this morning. As I lay in bed contemplating, then resolving to finish the project, I was entertained by a chorus of birdsong accompanied by various other urban sounds here and there.

We have a robin in our neighborhood who for the past few years has also suffered from insomnia, taxes too I suppose. He usually begins his solo performance around 1 AM, and continues periodically through the early morning hours. Today was no exception. This morning he was joined by his fellow robins around 4, when I was up for good. The robins had the floor to themselves for a good hour before the chirping of the House sparrows began. I thought that the robins had stopped but their song had simply been drowned out by the little birds. Eventually I could pick up the robins again as their lovely song created a nice counterpoint to the raucous sparrows. I noticed that something was missing from the mix, the normally reliable cardinals with their distinctive whistle. Sure enough, around 5:30 the cardinals took center stage, if only briefly. Soon all the other birds in the neighborhood including the ubiquitous starlings with their prolific repertoire of chirps, squawks and whistles joined in a crescendo of glorious song that all but drowned out the traffic noise. All the birds that is except for a crow who remained silent as I saw him perched on the ledge of the school across the way. He must have been taking it all in as I was. The glorious symphony culminated with a percussive clap of thunder, and then it was over, save for the chirping of a few sparrows, latecomers no doubt.

As it is still only early spring, many varieties of song birds have yet to arrive. When they do this relatively small classical ensemble of birds will become a full blown symphony orchestra.

But it was a very entertaining morning nonetheless, the birds made my otherwise tedious task a very happy one. Bravo.

As I write this, not to be outdone, the crow has just decided make his presence felt.

Falling in love with a city

"Sir, if you wish to have a just notion of the magnitude of this city, you must not be satisfied with seeing its great streets and squares, but must survey the innumerable little lanes and courts. It is not in the showy evolutions of buildings, but in the multiplicity of human habitations which are crowded together, that the wonderful immensity of London consists."

- from Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson


This is perhaps the second most famous quote from the good Dr. Johnson about his adopted home town. In it he perfectly captures the essence of the city that I came to know for the first time this past month.

So many cities wear greatness on their sleeves. New York and Chicago make impressive statements with their skyscrapers, Paris and Barcelona with their boulevards, St. Petersburg and Washington D.C. with their great open spaces. By contrast, London doesn't make broad gestures to get your attention, it sneaks up on you. There are actually many Londons, the city can't possibly be understood in one grand sweep, but a series of investigations. As such the city doesn't force itself on you, it lets itself be what you want it to be, while still remaining unabashedly London to the core.

Trips lately have been rather infrequent as family obligations have kept me happily grounded. But the opportunity to visit London was too good to pass up. It didn't take much arm twisting to convince my wife to join me. I've wanted to visit as long as I can remember and made several plans over the years as the number of guidebooks on my bookshelf can attest. It was not to be however until now.

Expectations and how they play out, are such an important part in one's impression of a new city. Nothing is more gratifying than discovering an unexpected treasure. Likewise there's nothing worse than having high expectations dashed. Frankly I had mixed expectations about London. Recommendations from friends couldn't have been higher, to a person everyone said what a great walking city it was. There is no better recommendation for a city to me than that.

On the other hand, I broke open one of the guidebooks that sat idly all those years whose author prided himself on being brutally honest (I'd call it just brutal) not only about London, but the whole of English culture. Everything about the city according to him, is about class and commerce, there is very little room in London for those without proper upbringing or resources. The architecture is second rate, the food terrible, the people are cold and withdrawn. Even the few noble historical events that the author cared to note came with a caveat. I concluded from the book's sheer negativity that it could only have been written by a native.

We also rented a few travel videos and quite honestly, seeing the Tower of London, the office towers in the Financial District and the Changing of the Guard ad nauseam, made London look stuffy and downright dowdy.

This is where the good Dr. Johnson's comments hit the nail squarely on the head. I can honestly say that I fell in love with London the moment I first laid eyes on it, driving in from the airport. I fell in love with the intimacy of the place, an enormous city that doesn't overwhelm you with its size. Not that eight million or so residents aren't out and about at any given moment, or that London isn't a sprawling city. But as Dr, Johnson suggests, every nook and cranny has something to offer, so one is never bored.

During that drive we were stuck in a terrific mid day traffic jam, stop and go traffic that was not unlike crosstown Manhattan's at rush hour. But I didn't mind it in the least. There was so much to take in, not the least was conversing with my two new friends, the chaps from the brokerage firm that accompanied my cargo and me to the center of town.

Eventually the "showy evolutions of buildings" appeared. We first passed the museums that were built for the Great Exposition of the 1850s, two great masses of high Victoriana, the Museum of Natural History and the Victoria and Albert Museum, the entrance of which is pictured here. They were buildings built with such confidence and exuberance, that a visitor from America such as myself could be excused for being wowed by the sight of them.

Next came the legendary Harrods, then Fortnum and Mason's, two stores that my mates suggested I bring my wife, (who would arrive the following day) after closing hours to avoid spending the entire per dium in one stop. Monuments of consumption but with a twist. Outside of F&M's, certainly one of the most elegant shops in the world, was a homeless man who was being tended to by store employees. From what I learned, he was a regular fixture there. One can imagine a comparable establishment anywhere else where he would have been discreetly ushered out of sight.

I was put up right in the heart of the city, just off Trafalgar Square. The first thing I did on my own was visit the public square that the author of my guidebook criticized severely for its lack of architectural cohesiveness. Perhaps, but what a collection of treasures, The Church of St. Martin in the Fields (home to its famous eponymous orchestra), the Admiralty Arch, Nelson's Column, the National Portrait Gallery (who paid for my trip thank you very much), and the indescribable National Gallery. It was from that great museum's porch that I was struck with my first view of the bell tower of Westminster Palace, home of the Houses of Parliament, known to all simply as Big Ben. Someone told me that in London, it's difficult to get one's bearings as the streets are so narrow and winding. But there it was, the city's most iconic landmark clear as day, big and beautiful, beckoning me, off in the distance, my first assumption to be shattered.

Within a few blocks of the tower, I heard the familiar chime of the quarter hour, the Westminster Chimes. It was 12:45 and I knew that in 15 minutes I might have my one and only chance to hear Ben himself chiming the hour. One clang would be all that I would take home from that magnificent chunk of metal. The wait certainly was not time wasted. Big Ben has tolled on the hour virtually non stop for nearly 150 years. It has been heard in person by millions, billions perhaps courtesy of the BBC. All the Queens and Kings of England since Victoria have heard it. It was heard daily by Disraeli, by Lloyd George, and by Churchill. More than likely it was heard by Sir John Herschel and Charles Darwin, by Charles Dickens and Virginia Woolf . It was heard by Charlie Chaplin and the Beatles. During the Blitz of 1940, German bombs landed within feet of it destroying the House of Commons, but were unable to silence it. It rang throughout the war. All the words I read, all the images I ever saw, all the dreams of London I ever had were summed up in that one brief moment. I had finally arrived.

The fact that I heard the tolling of Big Ben only once during my week in London is significant. London the world capital, the center of arguably the greatest empire the world has ever known, does not have a central focal point symbolizing that power. Unlike the U.S. Capitol or the Kremlin, Westminster Palace, the indelible symbol of its city and nation, does not reside in the heart of town. All roads do not lead to it. You have to seek it out. The same is true for the center of symbolic power, the Monarchy. Buckingham Palace is off the beaten path and can be easily avoided, something I did without much regret.

There are critics, including the author of my guidebook, (in this respect he compares London unfavorably to Chicago), who bemoan the fact that London never benefited from a central plan to tie all its pieces together. As a result, London today continues to feel like collection of small towns rather than a unified city. The West End is an exception. The architect John Nash is responsible for the plan of Regent Street and its environs, which date from the early 19th Century. He also designed all the buildings on the street from Piccadilly Circus up to and including All Souls Church. His commercial buildings were replaced at the turn of the 20th Century when department stores became fashionable and the original buildings were deemed obsolete. The buildings we see today were built between the late 1890s and mid 1920s in the Beaux Arts style, all to the same height and out of the same material, Portland stone. As such, Regent Street is reminiscent of the boulevards of Paris. Unlike its Parisian counterparts, Regent Street is laid out in a curve, one cannot see more than a few hundred meters at any point in either direction. The effect is dramatic and stunning. For my money this is certainly one of the most beautiful streets I have ever seen.

Yet Regent Street is an anomaly in London where most of the streets are irregular and buildings are built in an eclectic array of architectural styles and features. Personally I have no problem with this. Having lived my life in a city dominated by the Cartesian grid and fairly predictable architecture, London is a breath of fresh air.

While London is not at all a historic theme park as many cities have become, history is there for the taking. We happened upon the changing of the horseguard at Horse Guards Parade, opposite St. James Park from Buckingham Palace. A mounted police officer warned the assembled crowd about pick pockets, then gave us a little insight into the regiment of guards saddled in front of us. It turned out they were enlisted in the same regiment that defeated Napoleon at Waterloo. After making sure there were French tourists in the crowd, the officer relished the opportunity to deliver this information to them in their own language, in his strong East End accent.

Working in a museum means that I usually avoid the "busman's holiday" of singling out museums in other cities. But I was inspired as London has truly some of the greatest museums in the world which are virtually all free. Here are some of our highlights:

• Housed in an enormous former power plant, the Tate Modern is the newest addition to the city's illustrious collection of institutions. As a converted building, the space has been adapted brilliantly. The Turbine Room, the cavernous temporary exhibition space that greets you as you enter is stark but breathtaking. The museum exhibits art from 1900 to the present, some of which for better or worse pushes the envelope of popular taste farther than most institutions on this side of the Atlantic.
• At the other end of the spectrum, the aforementioned Victoria and Albert Museum is where the 19th Century remains gloriously alive. The V&A is affectionately dubbed "London's attic" as its enormous, eclectic collection of decorative arts is unapologetically displayed in a casual, non- pedantic style, contrary to modern curatorial practice.
• The finest work of art in the National Portrait Gallery is arguably its earliest, a panel paining of King Henry VII by an unknown artist. The history of Great Britain can be found at this museum in life portraits of most of the people who currently inhabit the vaults of Westminster Abbey. But the museum is not simply a who's who of England, its contemporary galleries feature the works of outstanding artists working in the portrait genre.
• The British Museum with its charm intact contrary to the song, has one of the greatest collections of art and artifacts produced by human civilization under one roof. Of course the rest of the world wants its stuff back, and the museum's vast collection exists as a monument to the time when the sun indeed never set on the British Empire.
• Two visits barely scratched the surface of the National Gallery which is simply overwhelming in the number of masterpieces of painting from 1300 to 1900 in its collection. My very favorite painting, Van Eyck's Arnolfini Portrait is part of the collection as well as many new favorites.

We missed many essential museums, the Cortauld Institute, the Churchill Museum and Cabinet War Rooms, Sir John Soane's Museum, to name but a few of the couple of hundred or so not to be missed.

While most of the museums of London are free, the churches are not, at least not the two most famous ones.

It is impossible for an American to comprehend the importance Westminster Abbey to the British people as we have nothing comparable to it. It is the place where every coronation has taken place since William the Conqueror's in 1066. It's the final resting place of royalty, as well as a pantheon of some of the most important individuals in English history. And it is, along with Canterbury Cathedral, the center of the Anglican faith.

While there is no charge to visit the nave, you must enter it through the gift shop. There is a steep admission for the rest of the great church, which contains the high altar and most of the tombs, including Poet's Corner, where Chaucer, Robert Browning, and Samuel Johnson to name a few are buried. This posed an interesting observation, you can stand over the remains of Sir Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin for free in the nave but standing over Ben Johnson and Charles Dickens will set you back a rather steep fifteen pounds. Does this mean the English place a premium on the arts over science?

In this most profoundly British of places, it was astonishing to find in some very prominent spots, monuments to those who were not British. The most remarkable of these is a group of ten Twentieth Century Christian martyrs, assembled in the niches directly above the West Gate of the Abbey. The central figure in the group is Martin Luther King Jr. A complete list of the group along with their stories can be found here.

Christopher Wren's masterpiece St. Paul's Cathedral also has an admission fee (£12.50) although you can still worship there for no charge if you promise not to sightsee. There seems to be no limit to the number of folks willing to dish out the equivalent of about 20 bucks to see the Cathedral, but only a handful show up for the services, at least that was the case the Sunday we were there. There were about 100 worshipers (in a building that can seat perhaps 30,000) scattered under the great dome. We were treated to the sounds of the Cathedral's organ and its boys' and men's choirs echoing through the building. The small turnout combined with the address given by the Right Reverend Michael Colclough which mentioned the fact that only 2 percent of England's children currently receive Christian religious education does not bode well for the future of the Church of England in England. After the service we slowly made our way to the door, taking in as much as possible when an usher asked if we were planning to attend the next service. When we answered no she politely insisted that we leave immediately. Indeed, St. Paul's resembles a museum more than a church these days, unfortunately reminding me of the Russian cathedrals in Moscow and St. Petersburg that were converted in Soviet times to museums dedicated to the triumph of science over religion . (They have since been turned back into churches).

All that aside, St. Paul's holds a place of prominence in the hearts and minds of Londoners (as it indeed should for all of us) as its near miraculous survival of the German bombs during the Battle of Britain symbolizes the fierce dedication of the city's inhabitants to save their city, not to mention their country and civilization as we know it from Hitler's onslaught.

British theater is one of those must do experiences like going to the opera in Italy (which I didn't), or the ballet in Russia (which I did). Fortunately theater, unlike most things in London is surprisingly reasonable, and there are bargains to be had on top of that. Out of the plethora of choices we had at our disposal, we chose Twelfth Night performed by the Royal Shakespeare Company in the West End. Anyone who would expect this to be a rarefied, pretentious experience couldn't be more off. This was a bawdy performance of the Bard's comedy played for belly laughs. The wonderful thing to both of us was the audience which was diverse in age and ethnicity. Unlike in the States, it was not an up tight crowd in the least, everyone was there for a rollicking good time, no "Shakespeare is good for you" attitude to be found. The performance was as one would expect flawless and it was our most memorable experience out of many.

There is simply too much to see in London in one trip. The good news is that it hardly matters. If you go, feel free to plan as many things as possible, you will quickly realize that getting from place to place is as rewarding as arriving at your planned destination. Along the way you will find any number of diversions, a book shop, private ones still exist there by the score, or perhaps a pub, maybe a little alley to explore, or an architectural gem such as this one pictured, the beautiful interior of All Saints Church by William Butterfield.

And if you don't get to your particular destination, well, there is a famous expression that sums up the London experience as well as its people.

The phrase is "Keep calm and carry on." Today you can find it adorning tee shirts, posters, and handbags in souvenir shops all about town. We bought an enameled poster which now hangs in our kitchen. The expression seems to underlie the stereotypical "stiff upper lip" attitude of the English people, one can imagine a prickly English nanny admonishing a crying child with it. This seemingly innocuous phrase was coined for a poster that was printed in 1939 in preparation for war. Although the posters were never distributed, this phrase has become emblematic of the resolve of the people during an indescribably bleak period of their history. Winston Churchill predicted famously it would be their "finest hour".

Pearly Kings and Queen, East End

Of course one has to be careful with stereotypes. I've never been convinced for example that New Yorkers or Parisians are particularly rude, although I have encountered a few examples at times in my life. The same goes for the repressed, reserved, stiff upper lipped English, a character that I have yet to fully realize. Our reception in London, save perhaps for the occasion with the usher at the Cathedral, could not have been warmer. I truly can't think of a city where I have felt more at home, including at times my own city.

London doesn't impose itself on you. It is the most pliable city I have ever visited. No amount of preparation can adequately describe it, you simply have to be there. Paris looks and feels exactly like the pictures. Visit the Art Institute of Chicago and have look at Caillebotte's magnificent Rainy Day Paris, or any number of the other French Impressionist paintings, and you will be transported there. London is a different animal. No portfolio of images can capture the whole of it.

Music may be a better means to evoke London. An essential London soundtrack would have to be very eclectic. For starters you need the Baroque of Henry Purcell and G. F. Handel. Throw in a little Mozart performed at St. Martin in the Fields. Then add Ralph Vaughn Williams, Percy Grainger and Gustav Holst. For seasoning, some Gilbert and Sullivan is a must as is the tradition of the English Music Hall. You'll need some great popular standards like the Gershwins' A Foggy Day (in London Town), A Nightingale Sang in Berkley Square, and Roger Miller's charming England Swings (like a Pendulum Do). Then there's the British Invasion: The Kinks with their hauntingly beautiful Waterloo Sunset, Ralph McTell's poignant Streets of London, The Rolling Stones, the divas, Dusty Springfield, Petula Clark and Marianne Faithful. Oh yes there was a quartet from Liverpool who had some success with a few of their tunes recorded over on Abbey Road. Jimi Hendrix did most of his recording in London too, in fact I heard you can still buy stuff from the guy who built all of his guitar effects.

One man band Lewis Floyd Henry channelling Jimi Hendrix

I almost forgot the very British Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Souza:

If there is a better example of the close cultural ties between our two countries I can't think of it.

Of course you can't ignore the Glam Rockers; David Bowie, and Elton John, and the Punks; The Sex Pistols, London Calling by The Clash. The list goes on and on and on.

Top it all off with contemporary music from the Caribbean and Africa, from India the Middle East and the rest of the world, and you may scratch the surface of this tremendously complex city.

By comparison, a guy wearing a beret playing the concertina on the Quai Saint-Michel pretty much conjures up the whole of Paris musically.

I close this piece as I opened it, with the words of Samuel Johnson as recounted in his biography by James Boswell. Here is his most famous quote about London, a snippet of which can be found in virtually every description of the city:

"Why, Sir, 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."

After we came home and our friends asked if we went to this or did we see that, upon recounting all the things we did, and the things we wished we had done and hadn't, we asked ourselves, what can two people in one week possibly accomplish in a city where a lifetime is barely enough.