By Martin H. Rots

    Mick and Keith don't live there anymore, but I wanted to see Cheyne Walk anyway.  They lived there in the mid-sixties before fleeing to the countryside, and I considered it a must-see shrine to debauchery and the Swinging London of the sixties.  I went looking for it on my first trip to the U.K.  I'd already done some of the standard tourist stuff: the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey.  It was my first time in London and I was in awe of the city.  I'd made some notes and jotted down some addresses from a few of my books before I left Detroit.  I was going to look for Mick and Keith's places in the city.
    I took the tube from Kensington to Chelsea and got off at Sloan Square.  In spite of the advice painted on the curb that advised me and all the rest of the American tourists to look right, I looked left, stepped off the curb and almost got creamed by a taxi.  After a false start and some confusion in Sloan Square that must have amused anyone watching,  I got my bearings.  I found Cheyne Walk on the map and decided on a route.
    It was a beautiful, late-summer day and I took my time.  From Sloan Square, I found my way to Royal Hospital Road which would take me to the Chelsea Embankment.  I strolled, soaking in the architecture and enjoying the sunny day.  It wasn't long before I reached the Thames.  I could see Big Ben in the distance to my left and the river was across a very busy street that ran along the embankment.
    I consulted my notes and map and made a right.  Cheyne Walk is a row of narrow, eighteenth-century townhomes with small front yards bordered by wrought-iron fences.  The block of row houses didn't look that impressive considering they were in the high rent district along the Thames.  In fact, they all looked like they could use a coat of paint the day I visited.  
    I took a picture anyhow.    
    I found Keith's place first, he lived right next door to nineteenth-century playwright Oscar Wilde's old place.  I thought it was fitting that Keith lived next door to wild Oscar.  Jim Morrison and Oscar are both buried in Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris.  Wild Oscar and the Lizard King, together for eternity.
    Mick's townhouse was at the end of the block but still only a minute's walk from Keith's.  Long curtains were blowing out of an upper window at Mick's old place.   I took another picture and stood there for a moment, imagining the people who had walked up the front walk and through that door.  
    I didn't linger too long.  It wasn't like I was visiting the pyramids or anything like that.
    There was a pub at the corner.  It was mid afternoon, and I was on vacation so I stopped for a pint.  I looked at the regulars when I came through the door and realized I was out of place.  They looked like they just got back from Ascot.  The men were in morning coats and top hats.  The women all wore long dresses and very large hats.  
    Their conversation stopped when I walked in and they turned to stare.  
    I was wearing a rain coat and had a Nikon hanging around my neck.  My chapeau said 'Beaver Island' across the front above the dirty brim.  Jeans, tennis shoes and a t-shirt completed my ensemble.  They were all observing me as if I'd just given birth to pygmies on the table.
    I tried to ignore them, went to the bar and ordered a pint.  I smiled at the bartender and said, "Mick Jagger used to live down the block.  Does he ever come in here?"
    He just shrugged his shoulders, put the pint down in front of me and said, "Two pounds."    
    The gentry went back to doing whatever it was they were doing.  Making polite small talk perhaps.  It was beyond me.  I suspected it was beyond most folks.  I thought about moving closer and checking out their women, to see if I could make them uncomfortable.  It made me laugh out loud when I considered their possible reactions.  At that point they all fell silent and resumed staring at me.  
    I guess their nannies never taught them it's impolite to stare.