Even without its second identity, South Kensington would be one of my favorite neighborhoods in London. It's packed with charming streets, quaint boutiques and popular museums. Although it's not the first place a tourist might think to visit, it's actually a perfect spot to begin a tour of London, as it abuts Kensington to the west, Hyde Park to the north, Knightsbridge to the east, and Chelsea to the south. And like many great London neighborhoods, it can feel like a small town within the big city. 

The heart of South Kensington is its eponymous Tube stop, which serves the  Piccadily, District and Circle lines. As soon as you exit the station, you'll be in a bustling thicket of cafes and restaurants under colorful awnings in a pedestrian zone. 

Even on the most dismal of days, outdoor seating will have been set up. It's a defiant gesture, full of hope—a sunny day seems less out of reach when you're sipping a cappuccino outside. (Conveniently, Londoners are impervious to drizzle. Tourists will be wearing ponchos and galoshes while the local population glides by in smart leather shoes and the simple trench. The rain hits them differently, perhaps out of respect for their longstanding tolerance.) June might be rainy and mild, but the good news is, you can find the exact same weather in January, and those cafe tables and chairs will be out at both times of year, standing proud. 

From there, you could walk up Exhibition Road and see the looming giants of museums: to your left, the Natural History Museum, often with a long, snaky line full of families; and to the right, the Victoria and Albert Museum, whose floors overflow with design artifacts and art; and just up the road a bit, the Science Museum. You could plan your attack over a strong coffee and a buttery muffin at Muriel's Kitchen. 

As you walk around South Kensington, you quickly begin to notice something unusual. More people are speaking French than English. On the sidewalk, a group of French teenagers, posing darkly, smoking, blocks the way. Chatting French mothers push a phalanx of strollers to pick up their other children, who are clad in adorable matching uniforms. A French flag whips about in the breeze. 

You're in Little Paris. 

Many of London's 100,000 French expatriates have made South Kensington their home. And, because the French took root here, their brasseries, bakeries and bookshops followed, to everyone's benefit. Within a quarter-mile radius you can find the French consulate, French Institute, and the French high school. So, naturally you will find a Cave à Fromage across the street, which offers regular cheese tasting nights. It also serves a sandwich to rival any found across the Channel. A perfect baguette, crisp and then fluffy within, is layered with brie, bresaola, arugula and a touch of olive oil. 

After you've enjoyed some authentic, stinky cheese and sauntered down the wet cobblestone of South Kensington (making sure to avoid any sullen teenagers), you could finally venture out to more famous sites like Buckingham Palace or Westminster Abbey. But, it is raining after all. Maybe you'll stay for awhile and take in a movie at the Ciné Lumière. History can wait. You've got Little Paris in London to explore. 

1. The history of its sights and ceremonies.

2. Fat trees fighting wrought iron gates.

3. Cool cars for every taste to be ogled on the street.

4. Great gift shopping for a Bond villain, countess or showgirl. 

5. Expressive statues. 

6. The lights on night walks. 

7. Greenery, mostly well-manicured. (Only the fighting trees grow with abandon.)

8. Fantastic, free museums.

9. Pubs, pub-goers and pub names.

10. Bridges, whether they be beautiful, grand, or merely functional, spanning the River Thames. 

On Sunday morning, London wakes up knowing what she's going to eat for lunch and where she's going to eat it. 

We have to wait until noon for the pub around the corner to unlock its doors. Its shutters are already wide open to the gray day to air out the stink of Saturday night. We're the first to arrive and peek inside hoping that the bartenders will take pity and open at the expected hour, but they're indifferent to our thirst. One comes outside with an unlit cigarette hanging on his lip and a folded chalkboard under his arm. He says good morning, but then shuts the door again behind him, lights his smoke and scrawls out the Sunday menu: 
Roast chicken
Roast pork
Roast beef
Yorkshire pudding

It's really not necessary. It's the same menu that's being scratched onto a thousand other chalkboards across the city. There are a few different flourishes here and there, but the principle is the same. 

He goes back inside and a few more hungry patrons join us in the wait until a quarter past. The bartender comes back and clicks open the latch but doesn't bother opening the door. The place is shining like a freshly waxed church pew. Mismatched old stools are tucked neatly under counters and tables. Sunday Pub is worlds away from Saturday Pub, who tends to be much naughtier. Sunday Pub is a family establishment, open to couples with babies in prams and grandparents after service. Unlike Saturday Pub its noise stays at a respectable level. The neighbors don't even complain; in fact, they're all there at the next table. 

Tourists drop in clutching London guidebooks, happy to sample a half pint at an authentic pub. An older gentleman, still dripping sweat from his morning run, chooses a full pint and stands at the bar, drinking it down quickly like it's a much tastier Gatorade. 

Sunday Pub is welcoming and clean and bright and cozy, but its best feature is its roast. The menu describes it, but roasts are all the same: a thick piece of meat, cooked long and slow, drenched in dark gravy, accented by green peas and a fluffy Yorkshire pudding. Pudding is ambiguous here. It is indeed that glorious steaming popover called Yorkshire pudding, but it also means dessert in general, so a pudding can be savory or sweet. It's wise to have a pudding by your roast and a pudding to complete the meal.

There's no rush. You can come alone with a book and nurse a pint for an hour. And, you might have to do just that as you wait for your roast. Magic in a pub kitchen happens notoriously slowly. 

Later in the afternoon, the fog starts to burn off and a few shards of sun splinter into the room, lighting up the wood and brass taps. Patrons glance over the flowers in picture boxes in the windows and consider going for a walk while the sun's out, but think the better of it. Sunday Pub is being so kind, and the view can still be enjoyed from inside. 

I am scared of driving, flying, go-carting, jet-skiing, really anything that involves wheels or a motor or propulsion of any kind. So, to compensate, I am a rude walker. It's been my main mode of transport for a long time now, and I'm good at it. I walk fast and follow all the rules. I'm so confident in my pedestrian know-how that I'm secretly okay with jaywalkers getting tickets. I am that person on a completely empty road, waiting patiently for the walk light to flash green. 

You see, I want to earn my self-righteousness on the road. That way, I feel no guilt when a wall of teenagers on cell phones comes at me expecting the sea to part, and I bump into them. I just smirk at their bad pedestrian-hood. Happy holiday tourists smiling at window displays? I blow past them, mere inches away. Even if they can't see my dirty look, it's there. With cars, I'm just as rude. As soon as that light changes, the crosswalk better be as clear as a southern summer sky. If the driver is impatient and starts rolling past that line, I look her right in the eye with a telepathic message: I have an umbrella and I'm not afraid to use it. 

My first day in London I walk to the grocery store around the corner from my flat. Having a new city to walk in is like getting a brand new car, but better. I whistle a happy tune until I get to the crosswalk and realize that there is NO CROSSWALK. On the pavement just a message in white: "Look right". Well, what good is that going to do me if the cars coming from the right never stop? The traffic lights  are just out of sight, and the pedestrians are looking left, looking right, their eyes wide. The light finally changes and the oncoming cars stop. We stick a toe into the road and more cars careen around the corner without pausing like we're a flock of sad city pigeons who get whatever they deserve. 

I'm still optimistic. Maybe it's just that one busy intersection. I try a quiet side street near a school. Halfway across and a taxi comes hurtling from out of nowhere. I keep walking and he shakes his fist at me. Nowhere do I see a stop sign. No stick figures flashing in helpful green and red. I walk toward a bus stop and see a gigantic poster with a face taking up the whole frame. His eyes stare out, a dead blank. His earbuds dangle grotesquely: "He changed the track and didn't see the car coming." What dystopia is this! 

I'm losing hope, but then I spot a big flashing yellow bulb next to what looks like a crosswalk. Could it be? It's a busy avenue and cars are speeding through it, but then a miraculous thing happens. As I begin to approach, a car slows down. It stops. After a day of walking around I don't know if this is a dirty trick. Maybe he'll plow me down as soon as I reach the center. But no, I cross unmolested. I can't help it, I smile and give a low wave. Pathetic. 

One day in London and my pedestrian hauteur has shriveled into a sad gratitude at cars who don't run me over. 

Since that first day I've learned a few tricks. The sacred cross walks with the yellow lights are called zebra crossings, and almost without fail, drivers will stop for pedestrians who are even close to crossing. Everywhere else you're fair game. You can make eye contact, smile, have a stroller and several teetering bags of groceries, cars won't stop. There is no alpha-pedestrian in London, only us pigeons, ready to scatter. So this is the formula that I recommend. Wait patiently until the light turns red to oncoming traffic. Let the turning cars pass as slowly as they like. If there is a car that could reach you in the next minute, make eye contact, acknowledge the driver's dominance with a look of abject fear and then run for your life. And learn to drive.