After another groaning board breakfast, we bounce on the tube — Cynthia with her preserved Oyster card and David tapping on with his Capital One (because … not to put a finer point on it AGAIN … David lost his Oyster card but it doesn’t matter because London has a GREAT public transportation system compared to anyplace in the US) (why is Britain still extolled for bringing trains to India?) (yet another run-on sentence from Bartelby but notice the two sets of facing parens … stylistic genius preparing for the Mackintosh designs we will enjoy in Glasgow) — to the small, poorly curated, kinda dull, nothing-to-see here, backwater British Museum.

Holy history of the world, Batman, even after being here twice before, this place is just exciting, educational, illuminating, inspiring, fresh, and, in its showcasing of so many cultures’ achievements, we become hopeful that the past is indeed prologue, that the recent authoritarian demagogues’ endeavors to erase worldwide history cannot, in the long arc of time (kudo MLK), prevent humankind from achieving what is good, true and beautiful, like all the artifacts collected, collated, curated, explained and exhibited here. Wowzer!

That sentiment directly plays into the photo above of the museum’s founder, Irish-born Hans Sloane, who, though a very accomplished and ahead-of his-time doctor (vax for smallpox, quinine for malaria, etc.) made most of his money after returning to England from Jamaica, where he was the Brit governor’s physician, and married Elizabeth Rose, whose Jamaican sugar plantations profited from the slave trade.

So, to cut a loooong story short, another long-dead rich English guy did really good: gave his filthy lucre and collected artifacts to establish one of the greatest collections of human endeavor on the planet.

Cynthia and David divide to view different sections of the museum, coming together where Tennyson’s words are inscribed on the floor of the main hall: “And let thy feet, millenniums hence be set in the midst of knowledge.” Not gonna go into what each saw but look at the pix and ask Cynthia; she took most of them.

From the great hall, we ventured to a Thai-ish restaurant called Kiln that made us wait 15 minutes outside on the street so its private party for wine tasters could conclude before ushering us into a basement where David sat on a metal stool for dinner and we ate … food. All good but seriously trendy and overpriced. ‘Nuff said. We banged outta there and went to see To Kill a Mockingbird at the Gielgud Theater.

Back to the Rembrandt Hotel and bed.