Spring Break, Day 2 continued

Sometimes my tangents turn into page long rants about the entire history of construction that leave me exhausted and cause me to pass out and not write again for almost a week. Whoops.

Now where was I? Oh yes, Westminster Abbey.

As I was trying to explain, there were too many things to see and not nearly enough time in which to see them. I walked past queens and kings, famous poets, famous structures. I walked in a real, live medieval cloister for the first time. I also got to say hi to Edmund (as in Spencer) for Natalie, as they're currently navigating an impetuous long distance relationship.

I also saw the oldest door in Britain, or so the sign told me. Unfortunately, no, it was not attached to a wardrobe and did not lead to a lamppost, nor an ice queen, nor Jesus in the shape of an eloquent lion, nor any turkish delight... or maybe it did. Yum.

Finally, the audio guide, before it decided to die on me, even included a song sung by the famous Westminster Abbey Choir, and though it was far from the real thing I'm sure, listening on my little walkie, standing among the empty choir stalls, with my vivid imagination, well it was almost heaven.

We left too soon, and after a quick lunch...

Bread and Cheese, the starving student's lunch.

...the plan was to head to the Tower of London, but that didn't exactly happen. The tube line, like all the lines in town, was closed. There was a nice man in a uniform who pointed us to a bus we could take a few blocks down... but when we got outside we were met with a force stronger than a natural disaster: the Tamil protests. Thousands and thousands of angry men and women all marching and shouting and carrying posters and flags as far as the eye could see:

(photo courtesy of worldbulletin.net)

We fought through the masses for a while, and I think Jenn almost had a heart attack, but eventually we ducked out of the way into a park to rethink our plans. Having no idea where to find this bus, and doubting very much that a bus could ever make it into this part of town at present, we decided to readjust our plans and head north instead, on a line we knew was open, to go to the British Library. Too much excitement for one day already.

I spent most of the metro trip trying to get psyched up about one very important thing: the Beowulf Manuscript. I had intended to make a pilgrimage to see it at the British Library for some time now, and here I was at last. By the time I got off the train I was breathing shallow breaths and making Jenn feel nervous... but of course when we got to the library it was closed too.

Blast!

I was done coming up with plans. I mean, if 15 closed metro lines and a closed library ain't enough to convince you that this isn't your day, maybe 10,000 screaming tamils is. Instead we decided to stop at a Starbucks (ever faithful) and relax a bit, which I did indeed as Starbucks across Europe have started playing a Talking Heads mix recently as sort of a "we feel your pain Rachael" phenomenon. And yes I did rock out.

Feeling better, Jenn and I decided to only do things we knew would be open for the rest of the afternoon. First stop? Brace yourself... Platform 9 & 3/4. It was Jenn's idea really, and a fabulous one at that. Imagine this: a normal, working train station of great size, full of business men and women, vendors, workers, backpackers, and people rolling those pansy-ass carry-ons about. But if you look carefully, you'll see another class of traveler. One that stands out. You can tell them by the way they try too hard to fit in... as though they had something to hide. But if you follow them you'll soon learn what their secret is, for they all congregate at the same mysterious location, at the end of a platform at the back of the station, past all security guards and checkpoints. It is there you discover that they're all crazy Harry Potter fans, most of them adults, trying to find the Platform 9 & 3/4 sign and to take many dorky pictures! I just couldn't get over it, all those respectible looking adults meandering through King's Cross station trying to look like they had a train to catch and weren't just there to take pictures with a shopping cart:

Be jealous.

It took me a while to stop giggling, but once I did we headed to Hyde Park and Buckingham Palace, two things we knew for certain would not be closed, because you can't go into the palace anyway, and I'd like to see the cops keep me out of a park, especially after so many failures already that day. (Cut to me running through the grass waving my arms in the air, screaming, and being chased by 10 British police officers.)

In reality all we did is, quite literally, tiptoe through the tulips, of which there were many all over London. We also, as promised, saw the palace, which was large and lovely, though I don't think the Queen was in residence (see, no flag).


All of it made me feel kind of foolish for claiming to be the King of England all these years. I saw for myself that the British monarchy does, in fact, exist, and for a minute there I was like oh, oh my, I'm so sorry, were you.. were you here's first? You say you're the Queen of England? Well gosh, I never meant to, I mean I never...

Then I snapped out of it. I'M THE KING OF ENGLAND!

(Please ignore the last few paragraphs unless you're privy to our Henry VIII jokes and/or have seen those ridiculous Tudors commercials with Jonathan Rhys Meyers giving himself an aneurysm shouting and whining about his absolute power.)

A stroll in Hyde Park following my abdication was rather lovely. Here is one of the entrances, with the pimpest coat of arms:

Any country with a unicorn in its national symbol is alright by me.

Once inside the park, the sheer oxygen content in the air was dizzying, and the wet grass and flowers smelled marvelous. I also fully appreciated this "English" garden, which in the States would look familiar, kind of like Central Park, full of long grassy lawns and trees and flowers. It even had a number of nooks and crannies, of which I'm sure we only found a few, which is something American gardens rather lack. But what it wasn't, thank the lord, was a French garden--made for the genteel to ride about in their carriages in and composed largely of gravel and a few patches of untouchable grass. Call them beautiful, call them famous, but I will never think French gardens like Les Tuileries or even the gardens at Versailles equal to the rolling hills of grass and flowers here in central London. Just check these out:


Refreshed and soothed and no longer tasting the bitterness of metropolitan London failure, we decided to don our bravery once more and head back into civilization to find some food. Led by visions of last time I was in New York, walking around at night solo and lookin' for some pizza, we headed to Piccadilly Circus, London's version of Times Square.


After tiptoeing through the crowds, which were nothing compared to Manhattan, we began our favorite pastime, the Great Restaurant Hunt. In truth, I hate the Great Restaurant Hunt with all my soul and much prefer to just bop around a grab something here and there when I get hungry, but when one is in London with a hungry travel companion, one has to make sacrifices. One has to find a place where both can be happy. And after walking forever, passing every other place for one reason or another, one finally comes to an okay pub, where one eats some bad fish and chips and is happy:

Bad English food. We is happy.

France, culinary heaven, le paradis gourmand, damn you we are through! Seriously, as I've stated before, all our American palates were screaming for after so many months trapped in dietary heaven was some bad take out food. Positively sinful takeout food, please. For the love of God just some greasy, salty, spicy takeout food. And that is just what we ate all across the UK. Fish and chips please. Fish and chips please. Fish and chips please...

Oh, I also had... get ready for this... a beer! Yes ladies and gentlemen, I've been jealous of the "beer kids" for some time now, watching them be all cool with their imported this and that while I shamefully sip gin and tonics like an aging starlet. I wanted to be cool and badass and participate in Spaten nights or "beer and the news" nights at the apartment. And for years I had been prevented due to the fact that I thought beer was friggin gross, but in an English pub, well I just couldn't allow myself to order anything but a beer. And you know what, in London, beer wasn't half bad. In fact... I almost liked it...

"Rachael Parker and the Quest for the Most Perfect Beer" to be continued...