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On the Street Where you Rent

(page 1 of 2)

A MUFFLED CADENCE DRUMS INTO MY DREAMS on that first wintry morning in London. Is someone rapping on a wooden table? Is it leaden plops of rain?

Peering through the filmy curtains of our Knightsbridge flat, I see towering crimson cones float by, each topped with a plumed, gilded helmet. Horsemen, yes, and of noble bearing and costume. They are members of Her Majesty’s Cavalry, heading from the dark-brick bastion of Hyde Park Barracks toward ceremonial duty at Whitehall.

Their daily parade becomes my wake-up call. Sometimes I rouse. Sometimes I don’t.

But there’s never a doubt this is London.

The spacious, high-ceilinged, two-bedroom rental—a block from the royal stables and about the same from Harrods— is on what the English call the “raised ground floor,” a few steps above the courtyard of a landmark 1895 building. My husband and I have splurged because our grandson, Adam, is a serious music student (his carry-on luggage was a French horn, stuffed with laundry), and it is his first trip to London. Every pound and pence is worth it for his bear hug on spying the owner’s baby grand piano, silhouetted against the barren branches of Hyde Park. Music underscores our holiday. I am grateful for thick, Victorian walls.

This is the third time I have ventured online to rent a flat, an act that holds some of the suspense of an Internet date: Will photos be recent? Will virtues be exaggerated?

In Knightsbridge, the descriptions prove accurate—right down to the small galley kitchen, where my grandson and I cook a roast beef Christmas dinner—after hastily Googling to translate the oven settings from Celsius to Fahrenheit.

The advantages of renting include the cozy illusion of blending in, of getting to know the local newsagent and fruiterer and pub—in this case, Paxton’s Head, across the street at 153 Knightsbridge, with a fine Thai kitchen. Adam’s favorite is the Green Man & French Horn on St. Martin’s Lane, opposite the Albery Theatre, where we nab the last three tickets for Patrick Stewart’s one-man performance of A Christmas Carol—a tour de force that not even Star Trek’s Captain Picard could equal.

Having a key of one’s own offers privacy and freedom of movement. A morning dash to the Harrods pharmacy? A twilight jog beside The Serpentine? Tiptoeing in from an improv jazz club long after others have fallen asleep? And the room awaits—overstuffed English sofas, floral-print window seats, sturdy teakettle— when we tire of trekking and want to stretch out and read the tabloids before an evening at Royal Festival Hall. I have come to treasure being on the inside looking out—especially if there is a bay window.

With a flat, we save by not having to tip our way across hotel lobbies and into taxis, and by bringing in groceries from food halls and street markets—especially the festive bustle of Borough Market on the South Bank, London’s oldest, where we buy Welsh cheeses, honey from Kent and a small Christmas pudding at the much-loved “Aunt Alice” stall. Given the dinner-conflicting curtain times of concerts and theater—and the soaring prices of restaurants—it’s a lark to be able to nip home by tube, whip up an omelet and rocket salad, pour an affordable New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc from a nearby Odd Bins shop and rehash the performance. In our stocking feet, of course.

The disadvantages are obvious and, for some travelers, unbearable: no 24-hour room service, no concierge to wrangle impossible tickets, no housekeepers (although serviced flats are available). In Knightsbridge, I learn to close the door on the inevitable chaos of our grandson’s bedroom. As for trash, it seems much more romantic to set out a plastic bag for bluejacketed dustmen than to roll containers to the curbside at home.

You can, of course, find pricier luxuries (plusher towels, Jeeves-like butlers, stateof- the-art workout equipment) at five-star hotels, and far cheaper digs with a bath down the hall. Part of the choice of London lodging has to do with how you want to experience the city—and where.

OUR FIRST RENTAL was a boxy, twobedroom unit on Old Church Street in Chelsea—a block from the Thames and within sight and sound of the bells of Chelsea Old Church, where Sir Thomas More worshipped in the 1500s and still glowers, on a pedestal, in bronze. Chelsea is a low-rise village that revels in its gardens, antique shops and history. Round blue plaques mark the former residences of notables: Oscar Wilde (on Tite Street, where he wrote Lady Windemere’s Fan), J.M.W. Turner (who painted in the rooftop studio of his Thames-side home on Cheyne Walk), A.A. Milne and Thomas Carlyle. Our plainish building had no such designation.

My sister, Betsy, joining us to celebrate her retirement from teaching, awakens at first light and strides to King’s Road to bring back fresh grapefruit and a copy of the Daily Telegraph. After a few mornings, she is on waving acquaintance with other early risers: a Miss Marple–like woman in green rubber boots, housedress and a faded pink cardigan, who appeared to be talking to her roses; a housepainter on scaffolding over Justice Walk, who touched his cap in greeting; a security guard at a Muslim primary school, not far from the original Manolo Blahnik showroom (a stunning hole-in-the-wall where all the shoes seemed to be size 4).

It’s early spring—a neighbor’s terraced garden glowed with forsythia—yet we enjoy the nightly ritual of lighting fake logs in the oh-so-English gas fireplace. Framed family photographs are on the mantel: youngsters riding horses, jumping horses, showing horses. Someone collects ceramic mice, piglets, rabbits and owls. We master the apartment’s quirks: figuring out the best way to insert keys in the triplebolted door (bottom to top) and comprehending the handwritten instructions in the bathroom: “To flush loo push lever down fast and hold.”

Because the closest tube stations are at South Kensington or Sloane Square, each a mile away, we buy weekly bus passes and take red double-deckers everywhere. From King’s Road, I scout the most direct routes to Royal Festival Hall on the South Bank, the spellbinding and undervisited Museum of London near St. Paul’s Cathedral, Trafalgar Square, the Strand, Hampstead Heath and Primrose Hill. Our favorite sprees are at Sir Terence Conran’s stylish Bluebird wine shop, deli and flower mart (350 King’s Road), whose extensive take-away counters enrich our larder with olive-and-pork pâté, curried chicken, loaves of freshly baked bread and a prime English Cheddar named Montgomeries. We buy a dozen pink-and-white tulips that are perfect against the pale apricot walls of the living room, where, one seriously rainy evening, we watch the giddy drama of the Crufts dog show (with 21,000 canine contestants), televised live from Birmingham and won that year—to the shock of the Brits—by a white poodle from Scandinavia (only the second year dogs from overseas were allowed to compete).

Toward the end of our stay, workmen show up to paint the corridors and ask permission to leave our door ajar for drying. By evening, the walls gleam in celestial white, but the doors are a livid salmon.

“What do you call that color?” I ask the painter, who can’t suppress a smile.

“Would you believe ‘Ointment Pink’?” he replies.

I hope the flat owners are not too shocked when they return from New Zealand.

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