Travel

Just back: London

“I’m sorry to disappoint,” sighed the lady behind the host stand, “but we can in fact seat you right away.”

She smiled, waiting for our reaction, pleased with herself.

Three of us had just stepped into The Delaunay, a popular brasserie in Central London. It was 8 o’clock on a Wednesday evening.

“We’ll never get in,” a local in our hungry threesome mumbled pessimistically. But the officious-looking doorman had actually smiled and bid us a good evening — I had hope.

Normally, trying to elbow one’s way into a popular London restaurant during the preferred dinner hour is not what one might call a winning strategy. But this wasn’t a normal day. This was toward the end of Week One of the Olympic Games. Central London was, shall we say, a bit quiet.

Arriving at the airport that morning, the newspapers were practically shrieking the news that London had become a ghost town. Amid the Games coverage in one of the more colorful tabs – who won what, who wuz robbed, who was caught on camera after having a bit too much to drink, who looked smashing in his or her uniform, etcetera – was a two-page, full-color spread detailing just how deserted Central London had become, and how it was basically curtains for the retail trade in the entire city if something urgent wasn’t done to get people back in the streets and shopping.

Turns out – imagine! – the warnings had worked. Incessant tooting from the government’s corner, pleading with people to work from home and stay off the already overloaded transport system in order to avoid catastrophe, meant that a visitor could hop on and off the Tube or bus system at will; train platforms were, at worst, typically rush-hour busy — and often far quieter. It was pretty great.

Of course, this entirely new type of doomsday scenario gave London, which adores a bit of drama, something new and different to moan about. In a sense, it had all worked out for the best.

Not that there was too much moaning — in fact, it’s hard to remember a time when I’ve caught London in a better mood. Out at Olympic Park, the one place in town that felt crowded, the positivity was off the charts. Volunteers were practically hugging spectators as they entered, security was efficient and polite (the TSA might learn a thing or two from these guys, for real), a crew of mostly very perky young volunteers did an expert job of managing pedestrian traffic as it moved in waves through the 500-acre park, a mostly simple but spacious and pleasant place, featuring enough greenery to keep things from getting too oppressive.

Inside the venues, the atmosphere was nothing short of electric. So high on the whole experience were the British spectators, they couldn’t stop cheering. At swimming qualifiers last Wednesday morning, inside the impressive, Zaha Hadid-designed aquatic center, I even caught a few Union Jack-clad fans shrieking support for the French. Then again, we were up in the rafters, so they might have been a bit confused. (I was informed, at one point, that one of the dots on the starting block was Michael Phelps. I wanted to believe.)

That was nothing compared to later in the evening, over at the Velodrome. There, the energy almost overwhelmed the space itself; approximately 6,000 spectators — a packed house — roared with the power of 24,000. Prime Minister David Cameron was there, doing the wave along with the rest of the crowd; the majority appeared to be keenly focused on ensuring that Team GB went home with whatever gold was up for grabs that night. The ladies were disqualified, sadly, but the men ran away with a world record, as Sir Chris Hoy and his crew cycled their way to a thundering victory. This, of course, brought everyone out of their seats and about two feet into the air; Princess Anne wandered down to the pit to hand out medals and everyone sang along to “God Save The Queen.” You didn’t have to give a damn about cycling or sports or any of it to be swept up in the moment.

Riding with the tide of tired, happy people streaming out of the park and down the steps to the Central Line platform at Stratford, I was thanked again and again for coming. Countless people I’d never met wanted to know what I’d seen that day, and did I have a good time. It was like running a gauntlet of Disney cast members. Here, however, it seemed as if everyone honestly wanted to know.

On the final turn into the Tube station, one last Games worker had his hand out, running back and forth through the crowd, high-fiving everyone he could get to.

“I love you all,” he shouted earnestly through his official-issue megaphone. “I love you! Thank you so much!”

Riding the tube back into town, I found myself wishing New York had put in a better bid – it would probably do us some good to lighten up for a few weeks. It sure as hell looks good on London.

With reporting by Simon Su

The author traveled to London and the Olympics with British Airways; for more information, visit britishairways.com.