There is only one other customer, an older man with fleshy eyelids and heavy jowls who is dressed in a green suit and matching fedora and carries a wooden cane. He talkes in a mumbling dialect of high English and is a perfect parody of Mr. Magoo. "Hmmm, well yes, then, harumph, this IS rather good, isn't it, hmmm..." he says while sipping his drink and myopically blinking behind his thick glasses.

I walk through the park as suggested. It is pretty, but rather chilly as the wind has again picked up. At the top of a small hill sits the Greenwich Obvervatory, where a small group of Chinese tourists is taking turns snapping pictures of each other setting their watches to the time displayed on the large clock that hangs on the wall outside. I decide there is no point in taking the tour, snap a few pictures of my own and head back to the waterfront.

I've arrived in Greenwich using one of the many large tour barges that run passengers between the various sites on the Thames. On the Greenwich waterfront, near the barge landing, the Cutty Sark sits in permanent drydock, an impressive monument to Britain's past imperial and commercial power. Nearby is a more recent (and much smaller) craft, Gypsy Moth II, which was sailed single-handed around the world by Sir Francis Chichester in the 1960s. The boat is much smaller than I expected (I read Chichester's fine account of the trip some years ago); it is a ketch with plenty of overall length but is quite narrow in beam. It's hard to imagine how Chichester (who was over 70 years old when he started the trip) could have handled the boat himself in the bruising conditions of the southern oceans. Today's solo round-the-world racers are equipped with advanced navigation systems, power winches and electronic autopilots. Chichester had little or none of that, just a poor-handling (but fast) boat with rickety self-steering hardware (a large wind vane on the stern coupled to the rudder), a compass, sextant and limited radio aids.

I cruise back up the Thames and depart at Embankment Station, hoping to get to Westminster Abbey for a tour before it closes for the day. I'm not successful, however -- it closes at 4:00 -- and instead plod my way further west toward Buckingham Palace.

In the fading light I have few opportunities to take pictures (and not a lot of interest anyway) so I content myself with a walk through the nearby park and back into the Soho and Covent Garden areas via Leicester Squate. At the Horse Guard Parade grounds (outside the old War Department) it appears that a reviewing stand is being set up. There are British and Chinese flags, and I remember that President Jiang is arriving in a few days. (I'm sorry I'll miss the fun; the London news coverage predicts masses of demonstrators, and I do enjoy a good party...)

After our press meetings, on Tuesday afternoon we take Eurostar from London to Paris (slow trip -- the thing sat on the track without moving for nearly an hour).

At Paris Nord (train station) we have trouble getting help. A woman in one ticket window looks at the hotel address we offer, passes it back and says "I can't help you." Similar story at another window, where the ticket seller seems to be having an argument with a boyfriend over the phone while rolling her eyes over some unknown slight. Finally we find a third booth where the ticket seller is kind enough to look up the address for us on a map. But we can sense her rolling her eyes in that particularly French way, for the benefit of the other people still in line, when we turn out backs to her and leave.

Our hotel near Paris is forgettable, although the service is quite good and the buffet breakfast excellent. In the morning we meet our contact in the hotel lobby. She is a wiry, birdlike woman of about 45 years and named Agnes who smokes often and talks quickly. Good sense of humor but poor driving habits. She drives a small Renault Clio and narrowly avoids numerous accidents as she misses turns and talks ("Oooh, excuse me... now I will swear in English...") while looking contantly, it seems, in the rear-view mirror.

We never see Paris proper; after our meetings with two editors we call for a cab and are driven (at impressive speeds) through the suburban traffic to Charles DeGaulle airport, where we spend an amazing time in a slow-moving line while the Lufthansa agent performs strange rituals with each prospective passenger, including an average of two trips to an unmarked door nearby for each. Somehow we make it to the gate and board the plane to Munich on time.