Bye Guys

Above: Abby, Joe (our coach), and me on our last day.
Below: Abby, Ruby ( a girl on our team), and me.

Two Tuesdays ago was our last day of swimming with Haringey Aquatics. We waited in the cold for the 123 bus as usual, put our things in locker number 293 that we always use, stood in the same place for boxing, swam in the same lane, and groaned just as loudly at the 1400 butterfly Joe (the coach) assigned us. But instead of heading to the locker room when we got out, we passed out our "imported American brownies" to everyone. They gave us each a bright yellow team shirt and a massive card everyone had signed. We took photos, gave hugs, and made promises to keep in touch.

In many ways the practice reminded me of my last day of school before leaving for London. The swim team here was my social life, just like school is in California. The big difference is that in California I knew I was coming home, and here I'm not sure if I'll ever see any of my friends again. I think one of the reasons we had such a great time with the team was because our time was limited. We were new and exciting, so people talked to us, and we made friends. We were able to fit right in because it was temporary, and no one had anything to loose. We managed to come up with a complex language of inside jokes and handshakes and we've had lots of great conversations comparing our cultures.

So even though it was a real tear to leave, I know that it's probably a good thing we were here for a prescribed amount of time. I'll do my best to keep in touch with everyone, and I know that when I come back I'll definitely be stopping by the Tottenham Green Leisure Center.

Lily

Shooting Canes and Dagger Sticks

James Smith + Sons since 1830 - canes, umbrellas...and wands?

LONDON
We found Diagon Alley the other day with my parents in London.  It was in the form of James Smith &Sons, established 1830.  


We walk in and feel we have entered Ollivander’s wand shop.  I grew up on my dad’s stories of this “shooting canes and dagger stick” shop. 

It is small.  One half is dedicated to canes, the other to umbrellas.  Four attendants are ready to serve serious clients.  Each looks like a Dickensian character.  One is reed thin, young but with a shock of white hair.  Another is plump and red faced.  Naturally the five of us entering with our camera, backpack and American accents are not smothered with attention.  This gives us an opportunity to consider the hundreds of canes and umbrellas.  My mom approaches the “Ollivander” behind the glass case.  After some warming up he explains that until recently (last 50 years?) when laws changed, daggers and guns could be provided inside the sticks.  In fact he showed us one handsome, narrow dagger safely locked under the counter.  More popular today, he informed us, are liquor bottles recessed in the canes. 

I touched the silver handle of a smooth, straight-shaft cane.  I felt cool.  A lovely heft.  I’m sure it is the style Sherlock Holmes purchased here.  Harry admires a 295 GBP ($450) umbrella. It has a polished wood grain handle that settles nicely in his large smooth hand.  My mom asks how people decide which cane or umbrella is for them.  “It is a very personal match,” he explains.  We assume this means that the canes choose the person – just like Harry Potter’s wand chose him.  As we thank the gentleman and begin to file out I ask, “How have umbrellas changed since you opened this store in 1830.”  “The change has been from silk to nylon fabric.” He explains.  “If you’d like silk we still have it, but the cost is about double.”  We thank him and exit onto the Bloomsbury Way.  It is drizzling.


Peter

Exton-- Our Visit to a Small Town

EXTON, HAMPSHIRE
In contrast to the hustle and bustle of London, England's Midlands are exceptionally peaceful. We discovered this when we went to visit some family friends the Howisons in their village called Exton. The six of us (including Susan and Harry) schlepped there in our rented eight seater van. Dad expertly drove despite that he hadn't driven on the left side of the road since we lived here last. We arrived at their charming house which was in the midst of many old houses, even some with thatched roofs.

                                   

We took a walk around the town and every person we say would wave and say hello. This was quite different than London where you get a long quizzical stare if you do so much as smile at a passing stranger. That night we all went across the street to their local pub The Fox and Hound to sing Christmas carols. The whole village was clustered around the pub's outdoor Christmas tree, singing. It was beautiful to see the union of generations with the children collecting money for their school and everyone with pristine British accents. After some mulled wine everyone became even more friendly and we all crowded into the cozy pub for catch up. The whole scene was really lovely with everyone participating and having a pint.

Pubs used to be only for adults but since many started to admit children, they have become even more lively and part of the community. Our hosts Fay and Dan knew everyone by name and would thank each other for their last share of vegetables or homemade jam. Overall we got an insight on the close knit community in a small village, which is so precious. It is something you just can't get in London.

 Abby

Harry the Wizard

LONDON
Atlantis is an occult bookstore in Bloomsbury near the British Museum.  It has been here for more than 60 years.  My father came here during his summer holidays from college.  On the ocean liner from Philadelphia to London he’d met an alluring woman.  He was majoring in Chemistry and considering medical school; she was an experienced palm reader.  Intrigued, he sought out the Atlantis shop as his window into the mysteries of spirits and fortune telling.

There are three people in the show when we walk in.  The owner is the daughter of the best friend of the founder of the store, whose bust and portrait hang on the back wall.  Sitting next to her is a man with a bushy white goatee, a tweed driving cap and thick, black rimmed glasses.  He is bundled in his winter coat.  A regular customer is chatting with them.  She is a petite middle aged woman wrapped in a shawl wearing and wearing a black, fur-lined winter hat.

Atlantis Occult Book Store - Bloomsbury, London

We ask the proprietor to orient us, and she explains how the books are organized.  Starting on the right are hundreds of works on witches, witchcraft and potions. I see titles: Magic without Mirrors and The Search for the Soul.  On the back wall are dreams, such as Where Nothing Sleeps. Elves and goblins are stacked at the front under the display windows. On the left are the books on Celts and earth-based religions.  On top of her disorderly desk lies a magazine: "Electronic Projects from the Next Dimension."

I comment that we are Unitarians.  Her eyes light up.  “My brother was a Unitarian.  I was impressed that they were people who DID things in the community.”  The customer near us chimes in, “But we could never understand the chalice.”  “You mean that we have a lit chalice during our services?” I ask.  “Yes," she chuckles.  We, of course separate the water or wine, fire and earth.  So using a wine chalice for fire is very strange.”  I nod in agreement.  I realize I had never considered why Unitarians chose to call their light a chalice.

“How have JK Rowling and Harry Potter affected your sales?” I ask.  “Not much” the owner responds.  “Do you think JK Rowling read a lot of these works before writing her books?  Are her descriptions of magic accurate?”  “She is very sensitive to our craft.  I think she has a very clear connection.”

Against the potions wall leans a broom with twig bristles and a gnarled stick for a handle.  I tease, “I see you don’t have the Nimbus 2000 in stock.”  She rejoins defensively, “That broom comes from Oxfordshire.  I was made and given to me by a fourth generation witch!”  I admire its heft and beautiful handle.  She softens, “I wish I could play Quidditch.”


The three of them happily oblige when I ask to take their picture.


Peter

Spink

LONDON
"If you ever want to sell them, go to Spink.  They will give you a fair price."  This is the advice that my grandmother, Gran (see previous “Our American Duchess” blog post), gave to her son Harry, my dad.   On Monday he, my mom, Lily, Abby and I are walking together into Spink on South Hampton Street in Bloomsbury, London.  Slung over my shoulder is a pack I have been carrying all day.  It is heavy with a dense, solid weight.  Spink has a substantial metal door with thick glass panels.  It reminds me of a bank. The sign reads: Spink founded 1666.  We enter looking rather like the tired American tourists we are.  

Spink - Established 1666

The elegant black woman at the receptionist desk listens to the beginning of my father's story and waves us into a large room to the left where we gather at a low, semicircular counter. Three well dressed men at the far end are speaking in low tones with a gentleman who is serving them.  My dad and I wait.  My mom and the girls wander through the room looking in the various cases.  Under the glass of the counter where my dad and I stand are a number of gold coins.  They are frayed at the edges and show signs of wear.  They remind us of the Roman coins we saw before lunch at the nearby British Museum. A woman comes through a door behind the counter and approaches us.  She has a European accent: German? My dad tells the story.  "My mother collected coins and stamps when she lived in London for many years.  She told me that if I ever want to sell them Spink would give us a fair price." He smiles.  "What do you have?" she asks unenthusiastically, probably having heard this preamble many times before.  She motions for us to sit down and unrolls a copper colored leather cloth out over the surface of the glass topped counter. We sit in the low chairs at the counter and  I wonder if the seats have been deliberately placed so low!  Our Spink woman looks down at us as I unzip the American daypack and pull out and place on the leather mat, one after the other, plastic baggie of coins tied with a twist-tie, four small leather snap-close cases -- one red and three blue, and the three blue plastic cases.  The leather and plastic cases each contain “sets” of commemorative coins – pounds, farthings, shillings, pennies, half-pennies -- all coins from before “decimalization.”   She takes a cursory look inside the leather cases.  “These are not very interesting to us,” she says. “Many, many of these were produced at the time, so they do not have much value.” “Furthermore, they are not in perfect condition.”  She adds as she points to the oxidation on one of the coins in the plastic case. “Is there a place that might be interested?” my father asks.  “There is a tourist shop across from the British Museum that might be willing to offer you something for them," she sniffs.  We probe and she finally offers, "If they offered 40 pounds for the lot, I'd take it."   “How about stamps?” we ask.  She explains quickly that she is not in Spink’s stamp department but will have a colleague look at what we have.  She disappears back through the door behind the counter.

George VI coin - Front

George VI coin - Back

A few moments later a short, trim, middle aged man walks up to us on our side of the counter and looks down at us in our low chairs.  We offer him a seat.  He chooses to stand.  My father produces several binders and explains the story behind the stamps.  The Spink stamp man opens  the first binder.  He points out that they have been stuck in the book.  This makes them worthless.  He hands back the binder and picks up one of the two Churchill albums.  These contain complete sets of the stamps from England and each of the Commonwealth countries commemorating Churchill's 1965 death.  He slowly turns through each page of each album.  His fingers delicately fold back one of the sullifane sleeves to see that the glue on the stamp is still untouched.  Finally, he breaks the silence: “These are not of interest to Spink.  There were many of these sets and they are not rare.”  My dad asks, “Where might we find interest.”  “Stanley Gibbons on The Strand will not be interested but across the street are several small dealers who sell to tourists and who might be willing to buy them.  You might expect 30 pounds for these Churchills and 10 for the others.”  We thank him.

As we are leaving Spink my mom notices, prominently displayed in the middle of the the room, a red leather case opened showing a set of George VI coins in a prominent case in the middle of the room.  Just then our German coin woman returns from her back room.  We call her over and ask “Aren’t these coins the same as the set we just showed you?”  “Um.” She responds.  “But why are these being shown in your showroom and you are not interested in ours?”  “Oh.  I don’t know why these are in this case.  They are not rare.  This case is filled by our PR department.  They do not know about coins.”  “Oh,” we reply, deflated.  We stuff our rejected treasures into our lowly daypack and troop back out onto South Hampton Street.

We walk into the cramped, one-room coin shop across from the British Museum.  In the middle of the room is a wooden box.  Inside are coins in plastic sleves.  Against three walls are similar boxes filled with coins.  Behind the retail height counter a man and a woman are sitting at their desks.  My father begins, “I have some coins…” whereupon the woman, without saying a word stomps out from behind the counter and deliberately closes the door to the outside.  We had not noticed that we had left it ajar.  She is clearly not pleased by our carelessness.  


The man looks up, “Let me have a look,” he offers.  We open the daypack and pull out the baggy and cases of coins. We lay them directly on the glass counter top.  He examines then and places them in two stacks.  He explains that he needs to call someone.  While he talks briefly on the phone we look around the shop.  The woman is back at her desk writing.  The man steps back up to the counter.  He says, “These,” pointing to the plastic baggy and a stack of Winston Churchill 25p pieces and a square 1066 – 1966 commemorative coin with the Norman Edward I on one side and the young Queen Elizabeth II on the other “are not of any value.  They will not affect the price.  For these others,” pointing to the sets in cases, “I can offer you 280 pounds.”  My father, without missing a beat responds, “how about 300?”  The man smiles.  “Would that make you happy?”  My father responds with a modest smile.


The proprietor offers to pay in cash.  He opens a metal box and pulls out crisp 50 pound notes: the old, oversized ones.  They don't easily fit in my father's wallet.  He reassures my father that they are still good tender.  I pick up the Norman commemorative coin and three of the Winston Churchill coins that he told us would not affect the price.  I hand one of Churchills to Lily and one to Abby.  They are big silver coins with real heft.  The portrait of Churchill on one side is brooding.  Queen Elizabeth on the other side is calm.  As we walk out of the store Lily says, “Wow, that is more than I thought Harry would get!” “Shh," I whisper,  "let's wait until we are outside.”


Lily, Abby, and I are not present for the final chapter of the story, in which Dad is rejected by Stanley Gibbons, the high-end stamp dealer, and, as with Spink, sent to a tourist-trap.  There he again gets friendly treatment and a surprisingly generous price for Gran's prized collection.


Peter