Sherlock's Home

Earlier in the month, the E-Streeters, the informal but take-a-bullet-for-you loyal friend group of my Dad's, lost a member from their fold. Martin Brewer, the English E-Streeter who was a proud dual-citizen native of his native UK and his adopted US, passed away after a short but brutal fight with a brain tumor. Martin was a Springsteen fanatic, a rock'n'roll historian, a Whovian, and, as an English teacher, a love of all things literary... yes, he and I had a lot to talk about in our many conversations. He was also one of the nicest, most genuine people I've ever met, with the single greatest zeal for life that I've ever encountered. If he wanted to go somewhere on a trip, he went; if he wanted to see a movie or a play or a concert, he went; didn't matter who else went with him, if anyone at all, the point was that he recognized how precious this world is, and wanted to experience as much of it as he could. It's a philosophy that I think a lot more of us would do well to adopt for ourselves.

Martin's best friend here in the states, Barry Scanlon, announced that he'd be flying over to England for Martin's funeral services, and my Dad and I felt it'd be our honor to tag along with him. If you had taken a look at my travel bucket list a few weeks ago, you'd have seen England sitting right there at the very top, but I'd have given anything to alter the circumstances of this trip. Given the occasion, the three of us had a historic, absolutely unforgettable time over there, meeting Martin's friends and family, taking in all the local sights, and frequenting one or two (or three or four) of Martin's favorite watering holes. They can drink, those English can. Most of it's better left unsaid, but I' want to dedicate this post and the next one to detailing some of the more lighthearted moments of the trip, all done and experienced in Martin's honor.

First off, a bit of a surreal experience for your humble blog writer, in ye olde London town. One of those mentioned areas that Martin and I shared in common was a love of The Great Detective -- that's Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes. I've read every single one of Doyle's original mysteries, and won't embarrass myself here by admitting how much time I've spent in watching derivative adaptations, from Basil Rathbone to Jeremy Brett to, most recently, Benedict Cumberbatch (I'm actually off later tonight to a local theater to watch Ian McKellen, Gandalf, take his turn in the deerstalker). When I found out that the London hotel we'd booked was an eight minute walk from BAKER STREET, Sherlock's very own digs... come on. There's no such thing as a coincidence that convenient.

My two traveling companions kindly kept their concerned glances to themselves as I all but skipped down Baker Street the night we arrived in London, newly refreshed with a hearty pint of real English ale after a long flight. I stopped a few passersby on the street for some directions, and they asked if I was looking for a tube (subway) stop; after all, what would be the point in looking for the home of a fictitious, made-up character?
Get away, heathens.
We walked along down Baker Street, which, hysterically enough, is the location of the only Dunkin Donuts in all England (it was Dad's turn to skip all of a sudden), and ticked down the addresses from 400 to 300 to 250, before finally, there it was. 221B.

IT'S REAL! IT'S REALLY REAL!

Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson had retired for the night, I expect, but that didn't stop me from knocking on their door like the grinning idiot I was.

For any other Holmes enthusiasts like myself wondering just what this Mecca is actually like, you can get very cheap tickets to go upstairs into the actual rooms of 221B itself -- Holmes and Watson are out chasing down London's criminal underworld, so it's just the rooms, alas, but still pretty fantastic. We unfortunately didn't have enough time during our cruelly-brief stay in London to make the trip upstairs, but some other time in the future: bet on it. Downstairs, there's a Sherlock Holmes museum and store, and your intrepid blogger walked out of it with a purchase of every item available for sale on the shelves (and a few perhaps that weren't). And if all of this near-religious experience tires you out, luckily, Hudson's Deli is the next door over for some nourishment. She's a landlady, not a housekeeper.

We were able to make a second trip over in the daylight, and on the way grabbed an incredible lunch at a pizza parlor a stone's throw away from Sherlock's digs.

As you can see from the decor in the background there, these people know how to capitalize on a target demographic

For anyone wondering the depths of my fandom, yes, that t-shirt I'm wearing there is in fact the entire printed Adventures of Sherlock Holmes text, in wearable form. It's part of a fantastic brand of clothing called Litographs, t-shirts that print whole classic novels for you to wear around. If you're a lit. geek like me, it's pretty much the universe's way of telling you your bookworminess is now socially acceptable. For anyone interested, you can check out the whole incredible line of them here: http://www.litographs.com/collections/t-shirts.

I wear a deerstalker now, deerstalkers are cool (sorry, wrong British fandom)

There was even a constable out front on loan from Scotland Yard to pose with (and provide that hat, which sadly wasn't mine). Inspector Lestrade, your best men are on the case.

A very, very cool moment in life, I'll be perfectly honest, and one that I know Martin would have appreciated more than anyone else. Next up: some runs for the ages!