2. Leicester Square, Beethoven & the Inn

The streets around Leicester Square were laced with street performers of surprising quality. In particular, I found a string quartet enthralling. They were playing Beethoven and Bach, and within a few minutes had gathered a large crowd around them. They could easily have been playing in any concert hall, but the acoustics of the street and its rushing throng were the site of their sound, and they used it just as well... nothing like live music, they say.

An obvious crowd favorite, it was easy to assume they would rake in a significant amount of sterling. They plied the Fifth Symphony is an elegant and austere way, their rendition lilting over the heads of all, moving some to tears, and warming the air. As they entered into the next piece, this one softer, more serene, a policman approached. He gestured to them, and they seemed to indicate they would like to finish the piece. After a few minutes, a displeased but embarrassed officer notified them they would have to pack up their instruments and obtain a permit before returning.

The crowd was audibly upset, and jeered the police while cheering for the musicians, calling for more. The policeman went back to his truck, and the crowd dispersed. I wondered if I would have the good fortune to see the same quartet, once they had obtained the legal permission to perform. From there, I returned to my room at the inn, off Russell Square.

Planning the next day was something of a quiet luxury, a way of acclimating to the state of solitude in which I would travel for at least two more days until I could meet up with Emma in Bristol. I turned on the radio for the sake of information, and to catch up on current events, know a little more about the city I was passing through.

Covent Garden, in Summer

My plan for the following day began to take shape: I would catch the Tube to the National Gallery, call Paddington Station about tickets for the excursion to Bristol, then to the Tate Gallery, via Pimlico Station, changing from the Piccadilly line to the Victoria. I could reverse the order of these plans, but reminded myself to visit Covent Garden and the Imperial War Rooms on the Bakerloo line. I would stay out at Covent Garden through dinner and the show. Somewhere in there, call Emma.

I had brought some intense Spanish reading with me, Ramón del Valle-Inclán, specifically, and it lent a welcome texture to the night, along with a sense of being at least partly still immersed in Barcelona, for which I had come to feel a great affection. Valle's Luces de Bohemia was a rich pool of contemplation to draw from, and I would recommend any such reading, in any language, as a welcome supplement for the quiet hours of any journey. The richer the reading, the richer the feeling of adventure and discovery for the traveler, if one's frame of mind is right.

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