Published in the December 10-23, 2014 issue of Morgan Hill Life
By Marty Cheek
Marty Cheek
When I moved to London, I knew absolutely no one in that British city of eight million people. It was late November 1992, and I was in for the adventure of my life as I started my new position as European bureau chief for an international news service.
The holiday season had started just as I arrived. On my first Saturday morning in the city, I woke up in my flat with a gloomy feeling of homesickness. I dreaded the idea of facing the winter celebrations alone.
The best way to cure a sad feeling is to take immediate action. And that’s what I did. A couple of blocks from my Highgate flat, I climbed onboard a red double decker bus and rode it into the West End, viewing from the second level the bustle of London life under pewter-colored skies.
The bus came to Oxford Street and dropped off a load of passengers. It seemed like a good occasion to follow them into that famous road where the whole world had come that Saturday morning to saunter the streets and shop the stores. Elaborate light displays hung over the streets, and at night when electricity coursed through them, they would sparkle with the images of angels, snowmen and starbursts. Father Christmas stood on every corner, clanging a bell for Salvation Army donations.
I weaved my way through the humanity, taking a detour down Regent Street where by accident I found my way into Hamleys, the oldest toy shop in the world — and the best. Hamley’s is a magic place to step into, and doubly so during the Christmas season. It was founded by William Hamley in 1760 and moved to Regent Street in 1881. I rode its series of escalators up seven floors, all of them showcasing more than 50,000 toys for five million visitors every year. Children explored excitedly the toys galore from plush stuffed animal to remote control cars.
After watching a demonstration by a tuxedoed Hamleys magician, I purchased a deck of trick cards with the intention of learning legerdemain. I never got the hang of hocus-pocus.
An hour or so later, I returned to Oxford Street and faced again the shopping population of London. A few blocks later, I came to a cathedral of commerce — Selfridges. Its iconic columns on its exterior made it seem like something out of ancient Rome.
Perhaps you’ve watched the popular PBS television series “Mr. Selfridge” which follows the trials and triumphs of American-born British retail magnate Harry Gordon Selfridge in creating a department store that would become the greatest shopping meccas in the world. Selfridge the man had a rags to riches to rags story. Born in Wisconsin, he worked his way through a series of retail successes to a position at the Marshall Field’s store in Chicago where he worked for 25 years. He revolutionized commerce by promoting the idea of shopping as a pleasurable adventure instead of a necessity.
In 1906 after retiring, Selfridge traveled on vacation with his wife Rose to London. He noticed that, although the great city was blessed with considerable culture and history, it lacked an American-style department store. Harrods existed in the upper-crust Kensington district. But it was stuffy with sales staff tediously guarding merchandise from grubby-hand consumers.
Selfridge built his modern American store in the unfashionable western end of Oxford Street across the street from the Bond Street entrance to the London Underground. The retail store set high standards for London consumers. Goods were more easily accessible. Elegant restaurants offered modestly-priced meals. A library and special reception rooms invited customers to linger. The display windows on Oxford Street created theater-like displays that changed regularly to entertain passersby. Unlike Harrods, the democratic Selfridge’s warmly invited all people to venture in and stay for a while as they perused items on elaborate display.
That holiday season in London’s Oxford Street 22 years ago, Harry Selfridge’s famous department store worked its magic on my mind. I felt like I’d come back home. It dispersed the homesickness I had woke up with that morning.
