wherein our narrator goes haring off in search of English history and walks entirely too much

I woke at the much more reasonable (although still somewhat less than completely reasonable) hour of 5:20, which is about when I'd be getting up if I actually lived here and had a day job, so I'd have to say that I've made some progress on that count. I was dreadfully stiff, though, through the low back and abdomen, a clear sign that I overdid things a bit with the walking yesterday.

You'd think that would mean I'd do less walking today, wouldn't you? Well, you'd be wrong. By the time all was said and done, I had logged 6.2 miles. That's counting the three hours I spent in a wheelchair at the British Museum. That place is huge. I would not have been able to even think about attempting it without one. Fortunately, they understand this and have a ready supply available at the front door.

But first, it was another morning rush hour on the Tube. We took the Hammersmith and City/Circle line entrance this time and it was bizarre. People were clustered around the front of the station, staring up at the screen, which would tell them where to go. Unfortunately there was no way of telling which train you were on until you got on it; fortunately, there is a lot of overlap between the Hammersmith and City and Circle lines, so you have ample chances to change to the right train if you've gone awry. Fortunately again, we did not go awry. But it was a lengthy (40-ish minutes) stretch of time before we made it to Tower Hill. From there, we made our way to the Tower of London, where we had a tour with a witty and amusing Yeoman Warder, visited the chapel where Anne Boleyn's body rests, breezed through several empty queueing rooms to view the Queen's jewels, saw suits of armor (including several for Henry VIII that clearly chart his increasing portliness and insecurity in his masculinity – giant codpiece, ho!) and replica torture devices, and checked out the medieval palace of Edward I. Busy morning. At one point, we were passing through the gift shop in the White Tower, and the ballroom music from Sleep No More began to play. I'm sure that music has a real name and another context, but for me, the place memory is so strong that all I can think of when I hear it is a crowd of revelers hoisting King Duncan on their shoulders. It's a little ironic, really, when you consider where we were.s

From there, we hied ourselves over to the British Museum, after first fortifying ourselves with lunch and lager at the Museum Tavern. I don't know how else to phrase this because there are no words: the British Museum is awesome. You are awed from the moment you see it, you are doubly awed when you enter the building, and you are trebly awed when you start touring the exhibits and realize that the British Museum contains pretty much one of everything that has ever held cultural, religious or intellectual importance to human civilization. Very often they hold the only one of that thing. Like the Rosetta Stone. Or any one of thousands of other treasures, of which we only got to see a tiny, tiny fraction because we only had three hours, and you could easily spend three days in there and see something different and new each day, and still have room to see new and different things on a fourth day. It is so awesomely awesome that I am still awed, and when I come back here, I will be spending at least a whole day there. The best part? It's free.

From there, we headed back to Tower Hill. We weren't especially hungry, so we grabbed some beer and cheesecake at an otherwise forgettable local pub which had signs everywhere warning of pickpockets and purse thieves. The cheesecake came with maple syrup and while I was skeptical about this combination at first, it did not take long to win me over.

We then headed over to the Tube stop to start the Jack the Ripper walking tour. I had wanted to do one on my first visit to London, but had allowed myself to be talked out of it. This time, I was bloody well going to do it, sore torso notwithstanding. There would simply be no other time on the trip that I could do it. So off we went, through the former slums of the East End, in search of "Gentleman" Jack. Things have changed. There are condos and wine bars, ample lighting and CCTV. With the exception of an underpass beneath a railway bridge and a handful of dark and narrow laneways, it was difficult to imagine what things must have been like there in 1888 beyond dark and depressing. We heard stories of the times, stories of the victims and a few of the theories on the Ripper's identity. I've never been particularly persuaded by the "cases" against Walter Sickert, Montague Druitt or Leather Apron. I found George Hutchinson a more compelling suspect, mainly because he deliberately involved himself in the case by means of an eyewitness description of the Ripper that was a little too detailed for the lighting conditions. There were at least five other walking tours roaming around the same area. Some were on the same subject matter, but I don't believe that all of them were.

After the tour, we made our way to Liverpool Street Station and back onto the Circle Line, toward Hammersmith. By then it was quite late and I was feeling peckish and beginning to worry that we might not find a restaurant open and would have to essentially starve until tomorrow's Germanwings "Happy Picnic." Fortunately, Shimla Mirch was still open, so we made one more visit for their excellent chicken tikka masala and garlic naan. Then we hobbled back to the hotel to rest our feet for a while and then pack for our early, early cab ride to Liverpool Street Station, where we shall take the express train to Stansted.

Germany awaits!