Bank Holiday Britain

We went to the National Portrait Gallery in London yesterday.  At least that's what my wife called it.  I call it 'A building filled with paintings of people I don't know drawn by people I've never heard of.'  It was a good day out, however, and served as the focal point of our effort to enjoy the last Bank Holiday until Christmas.

We get eight paid holidays in Britain, the least of any EU country.  In the States I got 13, along with 19 vacation days and five personal days.  Tallied up, that's 37 days a year I didn't have to go to work.  If you compare that to the 25 vacation days and eight bank holidays I get in England, you might think I received the short end of the deal but in practice--thanks to the 'use it or lose it' vacation policy they have here--I take a lot more vacations now than I ever did in the US.

But I do miss those long weekends.

This was a typical British Bank Holiday in all respects, bar one--it was clear, sunny and warm.  Otherwise, the motorways were jammed and the sea sides were heaving, which was why we decided to go to London instead of Brighton.

Also, quite typically, seeing as how it was a Bank Holiday weekend and a lot of people were traveling, the train service wasn't running and we had to begin our journey by bus.  The reason was, they were working on the lines. I can't fault them for this; you have to fix the tracks some time and, while you're bound to upset a few people no matter when you do it, you're generally better off not messing around with the commuter rush hour.  Besides, the substitute buses were efficient enough and we made it to London without much delay.

London, in a relative sense, was deserted.  On a normal day, you spend much of your time jostling tourists out of your way and being jostled out of the way by locals.  On this day, you could walk down the pavements unimpeded.  This wasn't due to the threat of terrorism (we'd gone up the day after the bombings and it was as crowded as ever) but the fact that most everyone who lived in London was at the seaside.  This became obvious as the day progressed and I found that the vast majority of overheard conversations were in languages I couldn't understand spoken by people with puzzled expressions consulting tourist maps.

We bought a picnic lunch of sandwiches, chips (they call them crisps here) and beverages for £7.29 at a corner convenience store and dined in St James Park, surrounded by trees and greenery and the aforementioned bewildered tourists.  It was peaceful and serene and the only annoyance was the beggars.  These were of the four-pawed and web-footed variety (ducks on the dole and unemployed rats sporting furry tails) and otherwise we were not harassed.  We got quite a chuckle out of the sign warning us not to feed the pelicans and I assumed it was a joke until, later in the day, we saw a pelican eyeing up a woman eating a sandwich.

I have to say, sign or no sign, it would never have occurred to me to approach one of these creatures and hand him anything.  They are big and fearsome looking; put a hoodie, sunglasses and some bling on this bird and you wouldn't be surprised to find people handing their wallets over to him.  As we walked away, he was still coolly appraising the woman, perhaps wondering if he should kill her first before robbing her.

The National Gallery is in Trafalgar Square, which was inexplicably packed.  We toured the portrait gallery and then the 'regular' gallery where there are pictures of boats and trees and the occasional nude.  And finally, we capped it off by visiting the gallery's cafe where we paid £11.58 for scones and two cups of tea.  ("Hell-o tourists, welcome to London; give us all your money.")

It was, overall a grand day.  But that was yesterday; today I'm on the bus on my way to work.  I see it's shaping up to be another sunny summer day, which is sadly irrelevant at this point.

*sigh*

Just 118 days until the next Bank Holiday.

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