Tate-tastic

In the early days of planning my jaunt across the English Channel with Mike, I sent him an e-mail outlining my destinations for the week. I tossed in a bit of traveller's wisdom, based on my last trip to London (things to see, things to miss) and closed with one final comment about our trip together.

"I'm totally open for doing whatever.. I can't think of anything that I saw in March that I wouldn't see again. Well, except, perhaps, for the Tate Modern, which made me want to gouge my eyeballs out with a rusty spoon. If you go, I'll go elsewhere. Or retreat, as I did in the past, for a quality nap on their comfy leather couches."

It was easy to see just how well Mike read my e-mails when, without a peep of opposition from me, we wound up wandering the halls of Britain's premier modern art musuem on Friday afternoon.

I kept an open mind... I patiently gazed at the "artwork"... I even stopped to stare and ponder the meanings of things.. but the first chance I got, I suggested Mike stay in one gallery while I looked in another and I made a beeline to the cafe for some coffee and people watching.

It's not that I don't appreciate art, per say, or that I didn't enjoy some of the pieces. I've just come to discover that while I can nod at art in passing, I don't have much interest in standing in front of a canvas of straight lines or ordinary circles and letting my mind wander. In fact, I find it to be an insufferable bore. Even worse, I often find myself wondering what qualifies some of these pieces as "art." A plain blue canvas? Art? An exact replica of a Brilo pad box? Art?

Not that I told Mike that. Although I did come up beside him as he studied a black and white canvas with two lines on it and said, "But seriously Mike...."

He put up his hand to silence me.

"Let's just not talk about it."

Agreed.

Part of my reason for going, I have no doubt, was just sheer elation that I finally had a traveling companion. Mike made it to the hostel around 2 a.m. and we crashed, waking up just before lunch time. We took a bus into the city and started the day at Westminster by touring the Houses of Parliament.

I've actually sat in on Parliament before but it's always a treat. Not only is the setting quite intimate -- the MPs sit in a small, cozy room along benches instead of at their own desks -- but the British Parliament still holds on to a few relics from the past. Including, the use of powder wigs and a giant golden septor. On this particular day, they were debating whether or not Parliament should be able to set specific military strategy or to give approval to specific missions during wartime. Not just declaring war but actual individual expeditions. Peppered throughout the discussions were condemnations of President Bush and Tony Blaire, all commended by a hearty, "hear, hear," throughout the chamber.

I especially enjoy the British Parliament because of the liveliness of the debate. Even though the chamber was virtually empty, MPs would crack jokes and laugh or heckle whomever was talking. It wasn't Robert's Rules of Order but it certainly was entertaining.

After Westminster, we went to the aforementioned Tate Boredom. (One of the pictures is actually Mike admiring an installation in the lobby. He was amazed. I couldn't help but wonder just how large the coffee mug would have to be to support such vast quanities of sugar cubes.)

For our evening entertainment, Mike and I decided to turn to London's nightlife Bibe, called "TimeOut."

Big mistake.

On thing about Mike, which I adore, is that he's quite an artsy guy. As a budding composer (and an amazing one at that), he just can't get enough of musical productions and artistic exhibitions. Typically, I enjoy this part of Mike and in fact, look forward to the fact that hanging out with him will force me to consider such things.

As I watched him flip through "TimeOut," however, gasping, clutching his heart, and pointing at various items on the arts calendar, I knew my days of Broadway musicals and shopping trips in Oxford Circus had disappeared.

We spent our first evening listening to an orchestra in St. James church, which was actually an enjoyable adventure. (I say adventure because finding the church was easier said than done.) The music was fantastic and hearing it in a church, surrounded by London's elderly population, made me feel like a little bit less of a tourist.

After the show we had a pint in a neighborhood pub and headed back to Greenwich for some disgusting late-night food at a dive down the road.