The Royal Wedding

It was amazing.  Just being in the crowd and being in the middle of London was exciting. 

Kim and I took the tube to Charing Cross station and had no trouble getting there.  We walked over to Trafalgar Square where it was starting to get busy.  The bells at St Martins were peeling and would continue to do so right up until the ceremony started at 11a.  We took in the atmosphere and excitement and decided to walk closer to the route.  I had hoped to get a spot near the Banqueting House since I thought it would be a lesser landmark and possibly less crowded.  I was probably right since we had no way of getting there except to go all the way around the route and approach from the south.   Along the way, we would ask the nice security guards or the bobbies if there was a way to get over there.  No.  Turns out - they weren't from around here.  Just about everyone we talked to was imported security for the event.  We Americans knew the city better than they did.  So back to the Square we went.

Kim found a nice spot where we could see most of the jumbo-tron.  We settled in time for the big guests to arrive.  We yelled and waved our free flags courtesy of Hello! Magazine each time the Queen (Elizabeth or Elton) appeared.  The moment Kate appeared for the first time, carefully slipping her dress into the car, the whole crowd sighed.  She was perfect.  I suspect most people had something puffier - more Diana-like - in mind.  Since after all this wedding is meant to be the happy ending to the fairy-tale started 30 years ago, derailed by the horse woman and crashing to an end that night in Paris.  Everyone was thinking of Diana and how proud she'd be.  And happily, Kate wasn't a cookie cutter replacement for Diana.  She is her own person; the perfect Princess to take the Monarchy into the Modern Age, something Diana started, but wasn't able to finish.  She appeared poised, confident and aware of the shoes she is about to step into. 

As she walked down the aisle, there wasn't a dry eye on the square.  And there was an audible chuckle when Harry stole a cheeky, backwards glance.  When she arrived at the alter with William, still holding her father's hand, not linking arms as you so often see, there was a calm sense of joy.  These two really love each other.  They are comfortable with each other.  Oh yes, Diana would be proud!  Her son married for love and friendship.  And that made everything seem all is right with the world.

Toward the end of the ceremony, we headed over to a local pub for fish and chips and more HD viewing.  We passed people dressed in wedding dresses, outrageous hats, Union Jacks, painted faces.  The whole of England was just so....happy!  After Guinness and fish, we watched the kiss on the balcony.  And then they announced the fly-over of the RAF guys.  At that very moment, we heard the low roar of the planes as they passed us overhead just seconds before appearing on screen.  SkyTV missed the second kiss, having the cameras on the planes at the time.  So there was confusion as they played back footage of the second, longer, kiss.  And as they disappeared back into the Palace, we ventured out onto the streets of London.  There weren't that many cars around, as many streets were blocked.  It gave this sense of being able to just run around the town which was different and amazing.  You usually can't walk three steps without fear of being run over by a cab.

We decided to make our way to the Palace to see the aftermath but only after checking out the selection of cheesy souvenirs which included Special Kate and Will's Royal Os breakfast cereals and Kate and Wills condoms.  Once to the Palace, we wandered around as people started packing up their campsites and slowly drifting out.  We got to a crossing and suddenly, couldn't go any further.  We had been stopped.  We asked what was going on - no one knew for sure.  Suddenly everyone was calling their "phone a friend" at home to see what was happening on TV.  Funny how the people watching from far away sometimes have more information than those on-site.  We all learned that they were on the move.  But we didn't know who "they" were.  So we stayed at the ready.  And then they drove by.  I heard the crowds and set my camera to movie mode and held it as high as I could.  I am far too short to see anything in a crowd.  But on my little movie, you can clearly see the Aston Martin convertible they drove to Clarence House.  YAY!  I was that close to royalty.  Cool.  A few minutes later, Kim saw Harry leave.  Again, I have a photo of it, but I'm too short to see over a crowd.  We walked around a bit more and by now it was past 4pm.  A full day of royal watching.  And well worth it!

Home

I felt such a nice sense of relief getting back home to the hotel room from my day trip to Wroxeter Roman Ruins, Craven Arms and the Stokesay Castle.  And I think of the relief I will feel tomorrow when I get back home to my flat London.  And then how I will feel when I get back home to LA.  Wait....where is my home?  What exactly makes a home?  They say home is where you hang your toothbrush.  I remember that the most when I was on the precipice of becoming a Road Comic back in the 90s.  It was supposed to make you feel better about being on the road 350 days a year and never seeing your friends or family.  I think it just reminded you to take your toothbrush.

It's fascinating to see so many ancient homes.  Wroxeter was built for 5000 Roman troops stationed in the area to keep the pesky Welsh and Picts under control.  When the Romans left, some stayed behind with their new Welsh friends and families.  They made themselves a new home.  But not having access to the money for upkeep and repairs (the Romans now had domestic issues to pour their wealth into) it fell into disrepair in the 4th century.  Artists' illustrations show it going from a large, marble covered Emerald City to a shanty town of sepia-toned shacks and lean-tos.  Stones were pinched for more important Anglo-Saxon buildings elsewhere in the 7th century.

The Castle on the other hand was a residence from 1291 when the refurbishments on a defensive tower were complete until 1869 when John Allcott bought it because he knew it was important, even though he was building the impressive Stokesay Court just 3 miles away which also still stands and was featured as the lavish residence in the film, Atonement.  That's almost 600 years of being called home.  What a lucky house!  Not so many get to claim so many residence, so many people who walk through the threshold and proclaim, "Home at last!"  These days, while it is a beautiful place, it is home only to tourists during the day and bats and cats at night.  At least there is someone there to love it.

My audio guide, an actor's interpretation of the Victorian lady responsible for much of the castle's restoration, tells me that each owner treated the house quite well, down to the first major landowner in the area who bought it from a close relative of William the Conqueror in the 11th Century.  A later owner loved it so much that when the Parlimentarians tried to conquer it (because it looks like a castle/fortress - it must be conquered!) in the name of Oliver Cromwell, they just simply surrendered, lest the house be damaged.  So much for the tower, secret passages and crossbow slits.  But thanks to their yellow-bellied cowardice, it continued to be a lovely, happy residence for many, many years. 

What is amazing is that this castle has survived about 700 years and Dad's house, where we moved when I was 4, only made it 45 years. It now sits post-auction, alone save for the contents that my brother an I don't want.   Dad was never one for value-added on that house.  The previous one, he certainly added a little somethin-somethin when he painted a mural of a stream with restful trees on the dining room wall, a tradition my brother followed at the Rodney Dr house by painting an American flag on his one window-less bedroom wall.  I wonder what it would take to keep my childhood home going for 700 years....?

Just a thought, but there were an awful lot of carved, wooden topless ladies in the castle.  Is that the missing link?

Sugar

*NOTE: I am on a train to Shrewsbury, so exclamations will be peppered through this post.*

WOW!  The Rapeseed/canola plant is in full bloom turning the English hillsides a bright yellow.  It's sunny and vibrant, quite a departure from the gloomy winter of just a few weeks ago.

And on to the Sugar Story.  It was the day James came to visit in March.  He had gone to the flat while I was at work to unpack.  Once we both got back to the flat, I saw this canister labeled "sugar" on the kitchen counter.  James never adds sugar to tea or coffee, so I thought it was odd he would bring sugar with him.  I asked what it was.  He thought it was mine.  Which led us to look at each other incredulously - then whose is it?  I had a disturbed feeling as I realized that someone else had been in the flat.  But how could that be?   I checked the windows - closed and locked.  And anyway why would someone break in, take nothing and leave sugar?

I emailed the landlord the next day.  And by the afternoon, was barraged by emails and phone calls back littered with apologies.  Apparently, a repairman had been sent to repair the faulty buzzer system and though he was specifically told to only access the main panel in the hallway, he for whatever reason decided to let himself into my apartment.  Now, presumably, he would have wanted to check the buzzer.  Maybe he did.  It still doesn't work, so maybe he didn't.  But what he did do is make himself a cup of tea. 

*Arriving in Coventry as Stonehenge is playing on my headphones.  The end part with the mandolin solo is perfectly fitting for the landscape.*

So.  The Tea Loving Repairman has a tea making kit he takes with him which includes a container of milk, tea bags, a cup and a container of sugar.  He left his sugar behind.  The landlord was quite clear that he didn't use my cups or tea.  I am supposing he used my kettle however, otherwise it'd be a very cold cup of tea.  And the Brits aren't all that into Sun Tea.

*Arriving in Birmingham and changing trains.  My 12:09 to Shrewsbury has been changed to a 12:02.  Good thing I asked.  Made it on the train with only 1 minute to spare.  Birmingham.  Hmmmm.  Industrial.*

I still have the sugar container, which is actually a vitamin bottle with "sugar" written in sharpie.  I opened it and it smells like vitamins.  Not my first choice in flavors.  I wonder what that does for tea?  But I hope someday, the repairman will be back to complete the buzzer repair and reclaim his sugar bottle.  How on Earth is he getting on in the meantime?  Unsweet tea, I suppose.

Healing powers of tea.

I was stepping off the 38 at Angel, furious about an exchange from earlier in the day, and I saw him.  A kid, really, in a sleeping bag with his head down, leaning on a phone box.  I have to admit that with so many drunks, I don't really notice people sitting on the street.  But I looked this kid in the face.  He was crying. 

Walking past, I tried to put it all together.  Why was he crying?  Was he homeless?  Maybe he got kicked out of his home.  He looked clean - and so young - maybe 17 or 18.   What should I do?  I don't know how shelters work here.  I don't know where one is.  Maybe churches provide that function?  It was pretty warm out and he has his sleeping bag, so he won't freeze.  But it was gnawing at me.

So I walked back.  I dug a couple of pounds out of my purse and knelt down to place them into his hat.  I caught his eyes, which were red and swollen.  "Are you OK?"  He seemed surprised that I was speaking to him.  He looked back down and said, "Yeah...uh...yeah.  Thanks.  Cheers."  He hesitated.  I wanted him to be ok but also if he said otherwise, I really wasn't sure what to do.  He wasn't drunk or high.  He was just - devastated.  But the kind of devastation that people usually keep to themselves.  I walked away.

Again, it gnawed at me.  The kid was crying.  So I did what I like people to do for me when I'm crying.  I brought him a cup of tea.

Buying the tea was easy until I had to decide if it should have sugar or milk in it.  I like milk, but what if he's lactose intolerant or something?  I started to stray off into the what-if-he-sues-me territory, then admonished myself for being jaded by an overly litigious American society.  I decided plain tea was best.  As I approached, he was staring at the ground again with the sleeping bag pulled up to his chin.  The sight was heartbreaking.

"I brought some tea," I said.  He looked up and thanked me.  Again he seemed surprised.  "It's going to be OK," I said.  I really hoped I was right.  For a second, I think he believed me.

"I hope so."

"It will.  Be careful.  The tea is really hot."  He reached out an arm from underneath the blanket.  despite my warning, he started drinking right away.  Some people do better with hot-hot than others.  I thought to myself, "Oh great!  This kid is having a rotten time and I just helped him singe off the roof of his mouth."  He thanked me again.


I walked away, hoping after a good cry and a cup of tea, things would seem a lot clearer.  I really hope for this kid it's that easy.

I'm a Phosphorus

One of the perks of joining a posh, high end gym is all the free stuff you get such as free intro to pilates, a free massage and a free health assessment.  As it happens, many gyms in London (maybe England?) have medical centers inside or next door.  I guess the idea is that is you are a gym person, you are probably interested in health stuff and might like to have a doctor nearby.  They also take National Health Insurance which was surprising, since I had imagined that to be more institutional looking.  But at this particular place, they have a "menu" of treatments including everything from a pap smear to reiki.  It is, after all, an Orthodox and Complimentary Medical Center.  Er, Centre.

Never one to pass up a freebie, I arrived for my free health assessment on my lunch break.  I walked into the glass-walled center in the middle of the gym to find all three  assistants staring out into the gym at a man who had just passed out during his cardio.  One was on the phone to the ambulance trying to explain that while they ARE a medical center (centre) they really are in need of transport to an actual hospital and that they are not next to the gym, but inside the gym.  Meantime, a man in a white coat rushes back into the centRE then rushes back out with an armful of equipment such as a stethoscope and that blood pressure cuff thing.  We watch helplessly as the guy perks up, then passes out again.  A gym employee pops in to ask how long the ambulance will take.  I remember my bus ride of 2 miles taking an hour sometimes in traffic and shudder.  The poor guy can't seem to stay conscious.  I was just about to suggest that maybe I come back when someone isn't dying all over the gym floor when the man in the white coat pops into the waiting room and ushers me back into an exam room.  He tells me he is Dr Asher.  And the unconscious man will be OK.  Eventually.

And so the assessment begins with a battery of questions about family members. He looks at my toes under a black light.  He asks if I was afraid of thunderstorms as a child.  He measures and weighs and takes a tiny amount of blood.  He asks if I propped  a door open with a brick, would I first wrap it in pretty paper?  (I had to admit I was torn on that one - depends on the length of propping.  Beauty vs Practicality, you see.)  And more questions.  Finally my revelation that I had pneumonia seals it.  I am a phosphorus.  And then we ran out of time.  He offers to finish up next week, since we were cut short by the passing-out-guy.  He tells me that it will all be wrapped up in a report with recommendations for diet and exercise.  But not wrapped up in pretty paper, as he isn't so much a Phosphorus.


I don't know if all British Medical Practitioners ask cryptic questions - is it part of the NHI?  But I must say, I can't wait to find out what in the Union Jack is a Phosphorus!

Lympne Wildlife Park

It's gorgeous weather in London, so James and I decided to take the train out to Ashford in Kent to see the Aspinal Wildlife Park in Lympne.  It's 130 acres of exotic animals with a view of the English Channel.  Not quite as weird as seeing the rhinos in a foot of snow in the Zurich zoo, but a bit out of the ordinary.  We took the bus from Ashford and wound our way through quaint country villages, pastures with grazing sheep and adorable lambs and the occasional manor house.  Once in the park, we ambled past lions, meerkats, reptiles, and a safari ride to see the ostrich and giraffes.  But our real interest was the great apes.  We got to the first Gorilla house in the late afternoon. The two young gorillas were playing on a slide.  They were incredibly smart, running up it and sitting on a handfull of straw to make sliding down even faster.  They chased each other and pushed and shoved just like any pre-school kids.  The Silverback finally made his appearance, clearly unhappy with the onlookers.  He occasionally darted toward the windows and pounded on them, frightening the human kids.  The gorilla kids were unperturbed.  Seems like they are used to it.  After some time observing, we went over to the other gorilla habitat.  It was just the two of us watching gorillas for a while until a very loud family wandered over.  The young girls were yelling at the gorillas, trying to get them to do something gorilla like and commenting on their gorilla odors. 

James did the unthinkable.  He shushed them.

The mother would have none of this.  "You don't tell my children to be quiet," she hissed.  James pointed to the "don't annoy the gorilla" signs and suggested that yelling was indeed annoying.  "Oh, that's not yelling, believe me," the mother retorted.  I ventured that she was probably right about that.  It did seem like an awfully loud family that was doing a great job keeping the decibels down to rock concert levels.  The family scooted toward the Mandrills with a bit of the, "I never....what a wanker!"  And for a few minutes we continued to hear blablabla wanker blablabla.

We eventually parted ways completely.  James told me that he had finally had a UK person call him a wanker.  It seemed a moment of pride for him.