I stop in the middle of the sidewalk to adjust my threadbare scarf against the winter chill. Cold weather no longer suits me. Neither do the hazards of curbs and cobblestoned streets. People swirl past like water around rock. I used to scurry around like they do, always in a hurry, measuring distances by time, but I have discovered what a slower pace reveals. Only yesterday, I paused in front of a nautical supply store to catch my breath and spent quite a while admiring the various knots and brass fittings displayed in its window. Seeing me there must have worried the shopkeeper; he came out twice to ask if I was okay.

I first visited London as a college student. In those days, the city was known for restaurants with bad food, people with bad teeth, and shopping arcades spilling over with inexpensive antiques. All that’s changed. The Wimpy Bars and little fry shops selling fish and chips have been replaced by espresso bars and slick cafés offering rocket salads and paninis. And, nothing is inexpensive any more. The hotel I’m staying in charges a small fortune for a room barely larger than a broom closet. Books touting London on ten dollars a day are long gone, but then again, so are Londoners having bad teeth and the need for travelers to bring their own toilet paper.

Even the sooty black coating that once diminished the city’s stately architecture has been power-washed away. Seventeenth and eighteenth century buildings now gleam as though new. Everything sparkles, including the young professionals who have come from all over to make their marks. The trills and melodies of French, Spanish, Italian, Japanese, and Arabic fill the streets almost as much as English. That has come as a surprise.

Lorraine and I had chosen London for our honeymoon. It was the early days of the British invasion. She snapped a picture of me standing on Carnaby Street with a Fu Manchu mustache and long stringy hair, wearing a sheer paisley shirt and bell-bottom pants. I look ridiculous. I’m tempted to throw the photograph away, but Lorraine made me promise that I wouldn’t.

Back then, the two of us wandered through the city simply for the fun of it. These days, walking reminds me of the mileage I have put on my body. Sciatic pain shoots down my leg, and my neck muscles are nearly frozen stiff. To cross a street, I must swivel my torso to look both ways, which is important, as cars approach from unexpected directions in England, and my dashing days are long over.

Three blocks beyond Neal’s Yard and the Dial, I arrive at my destination. I recognize the place not by its appearance, but by its address. My hands tremble slightly as I reach for the brass handle of the heavy glass door. It isn’t nerves or apprehension; my parts are wearing out.

“Evening, sir,” the exuberant doorman in a dark wool overcoat says as he pulls the door open wider. My arthritic fingers can’t release the handle fast enough and I stumble forward. “You all right there?” The young man sounds truly concerned as he takes hold of my arm.

“Yes, thank you,” I reply.

He flashes a broad gleaming smile with perfect teeth. “Staying at the hotel with us?”

“No. I came to have dinner in the dining room.”

“Of course, sir.” He escorts me across a compact lobby to where a young woman stands behind a small podium. She has a plain round face and is wearing an equally plain gray cardigan sweater.

“How can I help you?” She speaks with accent that I cannot distinguish.

“One for dinner, please.” I unwind the woolen scarf from my neck and struggle to pull off leather gloves that cling to my skin. The sound of laughter surges from the dimly lit dining room.

“Have you a reservation?” Poised to consult her computer, the light from the screen further drains the woman’s pallid complexion. Wisps of wheat-colored hair fall over her eyes, which she brushes behind her ear with a sweep of her hand.

“I was hoping you might slip me in.” Though my eyes had not fully adjusted to the low lighting, I could see several empty tables, some by the window.

“All our tables are reserved. We’re quite crowded tonight.” She avoids my gaze. Her eyes narrow as she fixes her attention to her computer screen. “Perhaps if you take a seat in the bar, I could call you if a table opens?”

“Thank you.” She helps me remove my coat. Such maneuvers have become difficult. In addition to accepting a slower pace, I’ve also learned to accept assistance. “I ate at this restaurant years ago, with my wife when we were first married.”

“I see.” The young woman sounds uninterested. “Can I have your name?”

“Douglas. I’m visiting from the States. May I ask where your accent is from?”

Her round face brightens for half a second. “Estonia.” Almost immediately, her face pales again. As she directs me to the bar, she hands me a claim check for my coat.

Estonia, I repeat quietly to myself. How the world has changed.

Inside the bar, a couple holds hands across their table while speaking softly to each other. It brings back warm memories. Clusters of animated businessmen talk enthusiastically, drinking heavily and gesturing, but not a cigarette is smoked. I vividly remember that this place had been a smoke-filled den. Of course, back then most everyone smoked, including me.

Lorraine never touched a cigarette, nor did she drink. I took all the risks; ate all the wrong foods, ignored all the known health warnings, and still she died first. So unfair. For the first few years that riddle plagued me. Now, I just miss her.

“What can I get you?” a waiter asks, interrupting my reminiscing.

“Scotch, neat, please, and a ginger ale with ice.”

The waiter returns with my Scotch, a second glass with several ice cubes, and a small bottle of ginger ale, setting all three items in front of me. “Should I pour?” he asks, reaching for the ginger ale.

“No, no,” I tell him. After he walks away, I empty the ginger ale into the glass and push it directly across the table. Then I pick up my glass and clink it against the other. “Thank you, sweetheart,” I whisper.