Recalling London

Day Five - Holland Park and the Notting Hill Arts Club

On Saturday morning, John and Tess fixed their lazy guests the most delicious brunch, featuring egg scramble, toast, pastries, and fruit. We all took our time eating, then chatted while one by one we took showers and got ready for the day. By the time we were all clean, it was mid afternoon, and we headed out.

The big plan for the day was to meet my friend Marty, whose band Lateduster was playing a free show at the Notting Hill Arts Club. They were in London because Marty's bandmate Andrew Broder had been signed by Ninja Tune for an eponymous record titled Fog. I had read up on the Notting Hill area in Fodor's Exploring London, and we decided that a stroll through Holland Park would be quite nice. Speaking of Fodor's, the Exploring London guide was the overall most useful travel guide for London, compared to the other four I got from the library and the half dozen that John and Teresa have. Of course, for actually getting from point A to point, um, Zed, London A-Z is the only way to go. Even the ubiquitous couriers have them on their scooters and motorcycles to pinpoint less-traveled streets.

Girl feeding pigeons at Holland Park
A great picture that Kerah took of a girl feeding pigeons at Holland Park
So, with A-Z in tow, we hopped the Tube to Notting Hill Gate. We set off for Holland Park, which was set to close in an hour. Luckily, that was about all the time we needed before we were too bloody cold to walk around any more. Before reaching our collective state of uncomfortable chilliness, we did manage to walk around most of the park, take pictures of one another, and admire the resident peacocks. Kerah took an excellent picture of a girl feeding the pigeons, with the pigeons all taking wing after being spooked.

On the walk back to the Notting Hill Arts Club, we stopped at Oddbins to warm up and taste some wine. They had a tasting station all set up near the entrance, and just to be sure, Kerah asked if there was a charge to taste the wine. Without missing a beat, the guy says, "For you it'll be five quid." Gotta love British humor. Kerah didn't quite hear what he said, but she did understand that he was messing with her, so we just laughed at our stupid American selves and enjoyed the wine.

After a little searching, we located the entrance to the Notting Hill Arts Club. Luckily we had the address of the place, because it was a basement entrance and didn't really have much in the way of signage. The only clue was the big burly black bouncer at the door. We actually walked right past him the first time, and he smiled when we turned around a few doors later. Guess he's seen that happen a few times before. We shrugged and once again had a good laugh at our own expense as we descended the stairs into the club.

Now when I first heard "Notting Hill Arts Club" I thought of a long hall with folding tables and stacking chairs. The actual place is almost diametrically opposite of what I had envisioned. There were no windows, low ceilings, and white stucco-ish walls that reminded me of nothing more than Luke Skywalker's house on Tattoine. Techno and various other electronica throbbed out of unseen speakers. Slide projectors cycled through random images, casting a new light on the walls (and clubgoers) a couple times per minute.

Marty and me at the Notting Hill Arts Club
Marty and me at the Notting Hill Arts Club
Marty was standing between the entrance and the bar, wearing non-matching "Life Sucks Die" trucker hat and t-shirt. We both had shaggy long hair the last time we saw each other, and he still sported hair almost to his shoulder. He didn't recognize me with my short hair when I approached him, but after a moment there was recognition and excitement. Pretty strange to meet up with a college friend in another country, but there it was. Right next to the place where he had set up a table to sell CDs and such, there was a sign asking club goers: "Did you forget: your keys? your mobile? your dosh?" Apparently, "dosh" is British slang for money in addition to being Marty's last name. Heh... I guess it's like that movie Swingers -- Marty is so fucking money and he doesn't even know it. We did a little catching up, and then he had to go check on something, so I joined my wife and pals at the bar.

There was a special menu for absinthe drinks, which was nice to see after our happy introduction to the little green devil a few nights prior. I ordered up a Bukowski, figuring that you couldn't go wrong named after the 20th Century's hardest-drinking writer (sorry Hemingway). The drink I received was red and fruity and had a straw, for fuck's sake. Chuck Bukowski would've been mortified to see such a pantywaisted drink bearing his name. That hypothetical scorn aside, the drink was actually quite strong, and tasty to boot. I switched to beer after that first one, though, since it wasn't even five o'clock yet and I didn't want to get too soused.

Marty at the Notting Hill Arts Club
Marty stands near "Beatle George Is Dead" headline while he watches DJ Andrew
Marty and I spent a while reminiscing about the good old days of college rock and talking about old friends and their new lives. His aforementioned bandmate, DJ Andrew, did a solo set before they all went on, and Kerah got a really good shot of Marty standing next to a newspaper pinned to the wall, proclaiming the sad news that George Harrison had died the day before. I had hoped to get up to Abbey Road at some point, but I never got there.

Anyway, after Andrew's set Marty and the rest of Lateduster joined him onstage. They had a really funky groove, with really active percussive elements and lots of ambient guitar. The most interesting part for me was Marty playing on an open Rhodes piano with drumsticks. He got some really good tones out of it, and it struck me as being pretty innovative. Marty and his pals had a VIP Ninja Tune party to attend after the show, so we parted ways and set off in search of grub.

John suggested that we grab some thai food at the Churchill Arms. The Churchill Arms is an interesting pub. It's Irish-owned, dedicated to former British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, and serves thai food in a jungle-like back room. The dining area was festooned with living vines and ivy crawling everywhere, and exotic butterflies were mounted in cases on the wall. Somehow it all works together, though, and the food is just fan-freakin-tabulous. I got the pad thai, because I'm on a mission to find the best pad thai anywhere. The waitress asked whether I wanted spicy or mild, and shot me down when I asked for medium. Well, I chose spicy, and I got spice in spades. It was quite hot and quite tasty, and it got the nod as the best pad thai I've tasted.

After we finished our meals, we took a leisurely walk back to Tess and John's flat, passing through Marlyebone on the way. It was somewhat interesting, but I think it was a little too late in the evening for us to get the full appreciation for the area. When we got back to the flat we hung out for a while drinking and talking, then turned in to rest up for our Sunday adventures.

> Day Six - Speaker's Corner, Harrod's, and museums >