Finding Humphrey Bogart in London…
Just back from a month-long trip to Australia last September, Mr. H and I started planning our next adventure. We both agreed it might be nice to try a place closer to home, an easy flight (we consider a flight under 7 hours easy). I suggested returning to London to follow in our expat footsteps from our days living in Surrey. Given his keen interest in gardening, I thought it would be fun to introduce him to one of my favorites, The RHS Chelsea Flower Show. We decided not to overthink the trip and leave our plans a bit “loose.” Living outside of London for a few years gave us plenty of time to see all the traditional sights. We knew where we wanted to go and how to get there and were happy to take it as it comes.
Mr. H suggested a hotel he had always been curious about, and I did the same. He picked The Stafford London in the heart of historic St. James’s, Mayfair. It took me less than a minute to suggest Heckfield Place, a country haven on 400 acres in secluded Hampshire. We planned to visit friends in Bath for a few days and were recommended to stay at The Pig near Bath, in Somerset. We left restaurants open except for breakfast reservations at The Wolseley, 45 Jermyn St, and Petersham Nurseries in Richmond for lunch.
That was the extent of our planning, and a few months later, we flew off.
I will write about our trip in a few blog posts and will start by telling you we arrived at Heathrow airport early one Saturday evening, and by the time we started driving into London, I had misgivings. Was it a mistake to try and recreate this life we had in London years ago? Would it have been better to just leave the memories for what they were, an extraordinary time in our lives?
We lived outside of London, a 20-minute train ride from Surrey, for three years, leaving in 2012 for life in Vietnam. Mr. H and I returned in 2017 for a business trip around the Thanksgiving holiday. He spent most of this time in meetings, and I spent all my time running around Sloane Square shopping, exploring and taking in the Christmas decorations. I definitely had the better trip!
As we approached the city from Heathrow Airport last month, I was surprised at how much had changed; like any city, it just got taller and more developed. Cars passed in a blur as I looked out the window, sliding slightly lower into my seat, and then I spotted it… Cow parsley, also known as Queen Anne’s lace, growing wild in a park. My heart melted on the spot, rewilding into cow parsley. This is what I loved; this is what I missed, London in the sweet mist of verdant green in the spring. From that point on, every corner we turned, I sat up a bit taller, leaning into the view as it pulled me further into my memories. It was good to be back.
We arrived at The Stafford, ( more on the hotel soon) placed our bags in the room, and headed out into Mayfair, walking into the night to take in the sights. I snapped a few photos as we passed Hatchard’s books (I bought both books) and loved seeing what was new in Emma Willis. The excitement started as we passed Dukes. The lovely thing about our hotel is that it is tucked away in St. James’s small, quiet streets. You wouldn’t know it was there unless you went looking for it. And I admit that night; we were a little lost in the city's dark corners.
Speaking of corners, as we neared one, a young man stepped out from the shadows and approached us, whispering and signaling us to come to him. He put his finger over his lips and said, “Shhh, they are coming; come here.” We were the only ones on the street, and it was dark, and, well, what would you do? We picked up the pace, said, “No, thank you,” and walked past him, turning the corner onto another dark street without a soul around. I told Mr. H, “ We really need to think about where we stay; this is a little too out of the way for my liking.” Within the next breath, I sighed with relief as I spotted the distant figure of a woman walking towards us, wrapped in a trench coat with her heels clicking on the pavement below her. It felt like a scene from a Humphry Bogart movie; I half expected him to step out from a dark corner, cigarette hanging from his lip….and before I could finish the thought, I heard “CUT.”
Yup, we walked into the scene of late-night filming. As the woman approached, an entire camera crew came around the corner, lights blaring from a series of spotlights, and there we were, two American “tourists” in the middle of the scene, looking like two deer in headlights. Mr. H and I flung ourselves against the wall of a building, thinking that would make it better, and all it did was make it worse. We profusely apologized as a young assistant approached us and told us not to worry. He looked strangely familiar. Perhaps the man who came to us earlier? Mr. H and I quickly turned the corner to another street where a large group stood behind the camera crew with their phones held over their heads. I wanted to die…just melt away into the dark recesses of the buildings. As we passed the look of disappointed fans, we heard some call out, “Let’s try again.”
I asked around the hotel staff if they knew who was filming and never received a straight answer. I imagine Mr. H and I are on the cutting room floor somewhere (if they still use that expression), or you might spot us somewhere on film, two sixty-something adults looking shocked and surprised on a dark street in St. James’s, London.
All that happened within five hours of arriving in London.
I went to bed that night dreaming of cow parsley and Humphrey Bogart. ;)
To be continued….
#beginagain14
