My flight landed in London, at Heathrow Airport, and I remember, as we were descending, how, when looking out the window I was struck by how green everything looked. I was staying with a friend of a friend in a flat in central London. What struck me was that, although it was mid-May, the weather was cool and damp—unusually cool for that time of year, I was told. The sky was an interminable shroud of continuous clouds the color of an old bruise. And, what seemed to go perfectly with this, was the dinginess of the buildings. There were dark stains on much of the stone and brick of which London was built, though I told myself that the impression of deep drabness might be in part because of the gray light.
I did the usual things: visiting the Tate and National Galleries, took day trips up to
