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London calling…

with dumplings and déjà-vu

I shall not rave about yesterday’s Ryanair flight — mainly because there is strictly nothing to rave about — but fact is: we actually landed in Stansted. Late afternoon, but still… on the ground, in one piece. That is already considered Premium Executive Success in Ryanair terms.

We wizzed through the automated passport control like Formula 1 retirees who suddenly remembered they still had reflexes… and ten minutes later were comfortably seated on the Stansted Express zooming towards London. This is one thing Britain always gets right: the fast train from the airport makes you feel like civilisation still exists… somewhere… maybe.

Changeover at Tottenham Hale (or Tottenham Vale as my brain decided to call it at the time…) was painless and then suddenly: the London Underground. Crowded, hot, vaguely humid, Tube-scented. So yes: London proper. A few stations later we arrive at Finsbury Park. And incredibly — I remembered the way to the hotel exactly, as if I had stayed there just 72 hours earlier instead of “quite a while ago”. My inner compass sometimes surprises me. Mostly it doesn’t. Yesterday it did.

But of course… plot twist: we cannot check in. System issue. So the hotel, in a moment of pure British damage control genius, sends us to the bar and offers me my first pint of the day. Free. Suddenly I am very forgiving.

Room eventually sorted, spacious enough, comfortable enough — but we aren’t here for hotel quality audits. Back underground — Piccadilly line — eight stations to Leicester Square.

Now when one says Leicester Square… one must accept that tourist density is measured not by square metres but by cubic oxygen displacement. But very luckily, just around the corner: The Porcupine pub. A familiar one. A second pint. Equally positive. London is going well so far.

Dinner… clearly had to be Chinese. And conveniently: Chinatown is right there.

I had done my diligent 48-hour-before-arrival research and learned that Tao Tao’s dumplings are apparently something that should not be missed. Since leaving Shanghai, dumplings have become one of those things I talk about with reverence and mild melancholy.

150 yards later, we walk in. And immediately I know I’ve been here before. Even better: the head waitress greets me like I was a regular who was there last week. Possibly mistaken identity… or possibly I am now one of those global dumpling legends who leaves emotional traces everywhere. Let us keep that mystery alive.

Food excellent. Wine excellent (and priced as if the grapes were blessed by Ming dynasty emperors). And then back to the hotel for the compulsory large whisky nightcap. Because tradition matters.

End of Day 1. London — still chaotic, still funny, still familiar, still delicious. And still full of tiny déjà-vu moments that make travelling feel like life’s little theatre is constantly reusing characters.

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